


Do No Harm

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1920s, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Drugs, Flappers, M/M, Mrs Hudson investigates, Murder Mystery, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prison, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 79,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23493760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: In 1923, Dr John Watson is on trial for the murder of his lover, Mary Morstan, a writer of popular mysteries. If convicted, he will hang. Sherlock Holmes sets out to prove his innocence, but finds himself more and more infatuated with the handsome doctor, and deeper and deeper inside the bohemian world of London's painters, playwrights, and poets. Will he uncover the evidence needed to acquit him in time?Excerpt: "Watching the man’s stoic expression from the side, I began to recognise that this was not just another puzzle to stave off my boredom. I had not often been in romantic relationships, and certainly did not believe that a person could fall in love with another person across a room, just by looking at them. But when I saw the light glinting off his hair, the look of patient fortitude on his face, and knew the effort it must be costing him to maintain his composure, I felt that I could not let him die. John Watson had to be saved, and some fate had brought me here to do just that."
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 253
Kudos: 279
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. One

The courtroom was packed. Next to me, Mrs Hudson shifted restlessly. I surveyed the crowd, trying to assess which side public sentiment was leaning towards. The trial was not a performance, but entertainment nonetheless for the common man. I noted some anxious faces, but most seemed excited, anticipatory. What better show than a murder trial to fill every seat in the house? The atmosphere felt almost festive.

“It’s not decent,” Mrs Hudson muttered. “Like a picnic, with people bringing sandwiches and thermos flasks of tea, when a man’s life is at stake.”

“We used to have public hangings,” I replied. “I suppose people were disappointed when that ended.”

“Not decent,” my landlady sniffed. “People are vulgar.”

When the curtain rose today, the defence, led by Sir Toby Allerton, would begin to present their case, and since the prosecution had provided such a salaciously devastating overview of the facts, it was widely assumed that the final verdict would be _guilty._ It was also assumed that the defendant would not testify, and that his counsel would rely on the ambiguity of the evidence to goad a _not guilty_ verdict out of the jury.

I had missed the opening statements and the prosecution’s case, having spent the last two months in Europe working on a case for the royal family of the Netherlands. Mrs Hudson had caught me, suitcase in hand, as I opened the door of my flat. Insisting _Mr Holmes, you simply must come with me_ , she had herded me off to court, where her friend Mrs Turner sat on the jury.

Though the press had been having a field day with the trial— handsome doctor has affair with wealthy flapper, murders her in a jealous rage— the entire thing had flown under my radar. What had looked like an open-shut case initially had drawn the public’s notice mostly because people loved to see a good looking defendant accused of murdering his illicit lover in cold blood. The entire event had generated inordinate public frenzy.

“Dr Watson is innocent, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson insisted. “And you’re the one can prove it.”

“A bit late now, I’m afraid,” I said.

She frowned at me. “If you hadn’t been gallivanting about Europe for so many weeks—“

“My brother insisted, Mrs H. I must pay my dues to the man who pays my rent.”

“Surely a famous detective like Sherlock Holmes can afford his own rent.”

“True. But he did see me through a number of years when I couldn’t afford more than a mouse hole, with small crumbs of bread and cheese to live on. And I admit to being an irresponsible arse most of the time, dragging the family name through the newspapers.”

“Even so, he must be proud of you, solving so many murders.”

“I’m sure there’s no _must_ about it. He puts up with my shenanigans because it keeps me out of trouble. The alternative is things he’d rather not consider.”

She patted my hand. “There, Mr Holmes. That’s all in the past.”

She counted her stitches while I contemplated the case. “What’s their evidence?” I asked.

“A syringe and a bottle half full of morphine, which they found in Dr Watson’s bag. His fingerprints were on them.”

“Of course they were— he’s a doctor and it’s his bag. They obviously cannot prove that these were the murder weapon.”

“Mary Morstan was injected with an overdose of morphine, and no syringe or bottle was found in her flat. He is the most likely source of the drug. That is the prosecution’s case, in a nutshell.”

“ _Most likely_ is not proof. No physical evidence, in other words. What witnesses did the prosecution call?”

Mrs Hudson laid down her knitting. “Let me see. There was Miss Pugh, the neighbour who found the body. She testified that Watson had been over that evening— which the defence doesn’t deny. She heard them arguing, and said that it wasn’t the first time— they want to paint Watson as a man with an uncontrollable temper, you see, a jealous man.”

“She had affairs?”

Mrs Hudson leaned towards me and lowered her voice. “With both men— _and women.”_

“Very modern of her. Who investigated?”

“Mr Lestrade directed the crime scene and gave all that evidence yesterday, but Mr Gregson was the one who arrested Watson. The coroner gave information about morphine doses and estimated time of death. Oh, and they read the note.”

“There was a note?”

“Not a suicide note. The one she wrote, asking him to stop by that evening. She told him she was having a terrible time and needed to see him, and that if he had ever loved her, even a little bit, he would stop by that evening.”

“Hm. A bit manipulative. Who else testified?”

“Irene Adler.” She gave me a knowing look. “I think we know who _she_ is. Apparently she and Mary Morstan were friends.”

“That makes some sense,” I said. “Why was she called?”

“The defence will most likely suggest that it could have been suicide. As an intimate friend, Miss Adler testified that it wasn’t in Miss Morstan’s character to take her own life. She had led a very up and down life, with numerous romances and breakups, and nothing had ever driven her to the brink. She said, _Mary was the least desperate person I’ve ever known.”_

“Not conclusive, though,” I said. “If we could spot suicidal people by their demeanour or their moodiness or something— well, it would never be a surprise.”

“She also volunteered her opinion that Watson was using her.”

“Using her? For what purpose?”

“Well, the defence shut that down before she could answer— speculative, they said— but the prosecutor reworded it as a question regarding Miss Morstan’s drug use. Miss Adler didn’t know for a fact that Watson was a drug dealer, but there are ways to say _no, I never witnessed him selling drugs_ that somehow imply that it still went on. She said that Watson was down on his luck and that Mary took him in, cleaned him up, and introduced him to people. In exchange, he provided her and her friends with drugs.”

“The defence let her get away with that?”

“ Well, she she didn’t say it outright, but suggested it rather cleverly, so it didn’t sound like hearsay. Sir Toby objected and tried to discredit her on cross examination, but she’s a very sly woman— a very beautiful one as well— and I think her implications stuck. Why do we tend to believe people who are beautiful and think that ugly people are all liars? It must be some psychological bias,” she concluded.

“Evolutionary adaptation,” I suggested. “In the eyes of an entire species, beauty equals good genetic material. Survival of the fittest. The honest are trod under, whilst the dissemblers reproduce themselves.”

“Then John Watson must be a fair liar as well,” she said. “Though I still think he’s innocent.”

“We won’t get an opportunity to judge for ourselves whether he’s lying, though, will we? Not unless the defence puts him on the stand. Who else did they call?”

“The receptionist from the surgery. She was there when they came to arrest him.”

“What did she have to say?”

Mrs Hudson sighed. “That he laughed and said, _Mary, dead?_ Rather damning that he laughed. For my part, I’ve seen many reactions to death, and when it’s a shock like that, people often say inappropriate things. I do not believe he laughed from anything but disbelief and surprise. The prosecutor tried to make him seem heartless, and while he seems rather reserved, he must have been shaken by the news.”

I gauged the crowd, catching snatches of conversation. Most people, I guessed, did not care about the verdict; they had come for the drama. Either way, it would be dramatic to see the man’s face when the verdict was announced.

Whatever miracle John Watson needed would not come from Sherlock Holmes, I decided. In a very few hours, his attorneys would conclude their case, both sides would sum up, the jury would begin their deliberations, and he would be declared either guilty or not. A guilty verdict would mean a death sentence.

The two counsel entered and took their places. 

“All rise,” the bailiff said.

Everyone stood, Mrs Hudson going on tip-toes in a vain attempt to see over the heads in front of us. Being taller, I could see the prisoner as he was escorted to the defence table.

She laid a hand on my arm. “Can you see him? What do you think?”

The man who stood at the defendant’s table was unimposing— fair hair parted in the centre, a neat moustache, dark eyes. A small man, dapper even in a somber suit, not striking, but good-looking in an unremarkable way. He lowered his gaze as the judge entered and took his seat at the bench. The bailiff then indicated that all should sit. Sir Toby, a tall man with a head of wavy, silver hair, leaned down and whispered something into his client’s ear, eliciting a nod from the defendant.

“He’s quite good-looking, don’t you think?” Mrs Hudson whispered. “And Sir Toby always cuts a fine figure, for an older man.”

The defence began by calling character witnesses.

Dr Michael Stamford, who’d been a colleague at Barts when they both did their surgical training, took the stand first. His square face and round glasses gave him an appearance of stolid honesty. In a voice that did not quake or hesitate, he testified to the man’s honesty, compassion, and moral character.

The prosecutor had one question on cross-examination. “When were you last in the company of the defendant?”

Dr Stamford admitted that he’d seen Dr Watson infrequently since his return from France. “Three years ago I ran into him at the Criterion and invited him to have a drink. That was the first I’d seen him since he returned from France. We saw one another at a Christmas party two years ago, at the home of a common friend.”

“And were you aware of his relationship with Miss Morstan?”

“At that time, no. I believe they’d recently met. She was not with him.”

“He did not mention her?”

“Not by name. He hinted that he’d met a woman, but that was nothing unusual for Watson.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, women find John Watson attractive. It’s not unusual for him to meet one.”

“Later, when you learned he and Miss Morstan were an _item,_ as they say, did you continue to believe this was _nothing unusual_?”

“I thought she was a bit fast for him, but certainly not out of his league.”

“You did not see this as an alteration in his character or lifestyle?”

“John Watson is a good man—”

Sir Toby rose. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

The prosecutor sat. “No further questions.”

William Murray testified that he served with Captain Watson in France, and had maintained contact with him since his return to England. He vouched for the man’s character and ability as a physician.

“You had dinner with Dr Watson the evening Miss Morstan died. What time was that?”

“Seven o’clock.”

“What did you know about their relationship?”

“Just what I read in the papers. Watson never talked about her. He isn’t like that. About once a month we’d get a pint and talk about people we both knew from army days, but he never said much about her.”

“On the evening in question, did he mention her at all?”

Murray looked a bit uncomfortable. “He did. Said he’d ended it.”

“Did he give you a reason why?”

“He said... that he’d realised something. Said he was contemplating a change of life, maybe going abroad again.”

“What did you interpret this to mean?”

“I don’t know. I suppose he was unhappy. Things hadn’t gone well for him since the war, and I thought he was contemplating a new start.”

“What time did you part?”

“It was after nine, as I recall. He said that he had another appointment, but he would call me soon.”

“Did he say that his appointment was with Miss Morstan?”

Murray shook his head. “No. As I said, he didn’t talk much about her.”

Sir Toby nodded. “I have no more questions.”

The prosecutor rose. “Would you say John Watson had a temper?”

“No more so than anyone else.”

“Let me be more specific: in France, did you not witness Captain Watson beat a man nearly to death?”

Murray’s face darkened. “That man was no victim. Barely a man. What he’d done—“

“Answer the question. Did he beat the man?”

“Yes, because he’d taken unspeakable liberties with a girl—”

“Was Watson reprimanded?”

“Officially, yes. He should have gotten a medal—.”

The prosecutor went on. “The man was a fellow soldier, was he not? And are there not procedures for dealing with criminal activity by soldiers?”

“A reprimand was given to both of them,” said Murray. “It was called a brawl.”

“And Watson initiated?”

“Yes, but—.”

“No further questions.”

The defence called another witness: Andrew Farrell.

“You are a friend of both Miss Morstan and Doctor Watson?” Sir Toby asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Miss Morstan. How did you know her?”

“She and I ran in the same crowd. Parties, you know. I think Irene Adler introduced us. She and Mary were school chums.”

“How did you know John Watson?”

“I met him at the Bolshevist Club.”

“When was this?”

“The thirty-first of March, 1922. It was his birthday, and Mary had dragged him along to the club to celebrate.”

“Was it your impression that they were romantically linked at that time?”

“Obviously. She was holding his hand, and when she sat down, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Clearly beyond casual.”

“And was it your impression that she had initiated the relationship?”

“Well, she introduced him as her doctor, so I guess that was how they’d met.”

“Did it appear to be an amicable relationship?”

He smiled. “Mary was always amicable, as long as she had her man on a leash.”

The crowd chuckled. The judge glared threateningly and took the opportunity to remind everyone that a court room is not a venue of entertainment.

“Can you clarify, Mr Farrell?”

“What I mean is, no man ever started anything up with Mary— they might try, but it was pointless to initiate. She liked to be in charge, and if a man was with her, it was because she had allowed it.”

“Did he depend on her for income?”

“He worked at a surgery. He could support himself on what he made there, but not keep an expensive girl like Mary as well. Her family owned the building where she lived and gave her an allowance, so if she wanted to party, she paid.”

“How did Doctor Watson treat her?”

“He was very good to her. He put up with a lot.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“She liked to flirt with other men— and women— while she had him in tow. It was her way of reminding him who was in charge.”

“How did he react when she did this?”

“He tolerated it. I’m not saying he liked it. But it was the price of having her, and he was willing to pay.”

“Did you ever see any signs that there was discord in the relationship?”

“You mean, did they argue? Of course— show me a couple who doesn’t have a domestic now and then—“

“Were these lover’s quarrels ever physical? That is, when they quarrelled, did he ever strike her or use force against her?”

“I never witnessed _him_ using force.”

“Did she ever use physical violence against him?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He smiled. “Love hurts, they say.”

A few titters arose from the crowd.

I leaned over and whispered to Mrs Hudson, “This is why character witnesses are a bad idea. They can go rogue if you’re not careful.”

“I mean,” continued Farrell, “she was a tease, a flirt, and temperamental as a diva.I saw her slap him once, when she was peeved about something. She might throw things or shove him around a bit. Watson endured it, but he wasn’t her slave.”

“Did you ever see Dr Watson give Miss Morstan an injection?”

“Yes, a few times. She suffered from extreme migraines, and had sought him out for that reason. I assumed that the injections were for pain relief.”

“Did you ever suspect that she might be addicted?”

“I have no reason to think she was.”

“Did you ever see Dr Watson give drugs to anyone else, at a party or otherwise?”

“No. He was very strict about it. Mary used to complain that he was stingy with his dosing.”

“Did you ever witness him taking drugs himself?”

“No.”

“How did Miss Morstan react when he broke off their affair?”

“She made a lot of drama over it. That’s typical for her, though.”

“Did she ever threaten to harm herself?”

“No, never. I think it surprised her to be the one rejected. Usually she was the one who ended an affair.”

“Before this happened, had she said anything to you about breaking up with him?”

“Not specifically. It was just a matter of time, though, with Mary. She liked having a man at her beck and call, but became bored after a while and would find someone new.”

“How long had she and Dr Watson been together?”

“About two years, I think.”

“Did she ever say she loved him?”

“No, never. Love was cliché, old hat, according to her. She would never be caught dead telling a man she loved him.”

“Knowing John Watson as you do, did you see any evidence that he loved her?”

“Watson is sort of a cool character. Emotionally, I mean. He wasn’t demonstrative or dramatic with her, but always very attentive. He took care of her, but didn’t like making a scene.”

“When did you last see Miss Morstan?”

“A few days before she died. We had lunch at Angelo’s. I was visiting my mother in Epping when it happened, but came back as soon as I heard.”

“And did you notice anything unusual the last time you saw Miss Morstan?”

“She was working on her next book, which meant she was in a temper. I’d managed to talk her into leaving the flat and having a bite, but she was frustrated and taking it out on everyone within arm’s reach. I remember she snapped at the waiter.”

“Did she mention the defendant?”

“She was still upset that he’d left, very angry with him. He’d never stayed away for so long, and I think it was sinking in that she’d lost him. It was making it harder for her to write. She said, _Andy, I don’t know if I can do this any longer._ ”

“How did you interpret that statement?”

“At the time, it seemed like nothing more than writer’s block. I’d seen her struggle through that before, and I suppose she’d made similar statements.”

“When did you last see the defendant?”

“I don’t know. Maybe two weeks before. He’d moved out of our orbit, stopped going to parties. We didn’t run into one another much.”

“Did you ever go to see him?”

“Just once, after he moved, I stopped over to the surgery to see how he was getting on. He’d gotten a small flat and was working full-time. I thought he seemed fine. I asked him to have a drink with me, but he declined.”

“You didn’t socialise with him after he and Miss Morstan ended their relationship?”

“He wasn’t interested. We’d been friends, but I respected what he was trying to do.”

“What was he trying to do?”

“Make a clean break. Get on with his life.”

“Did he bear Miss Morstan any ill will, or blame her for anything?”

“No, not at all. He had no ill feelings towards her. He just needed a change. She’d worn him out with all the quarrelling and complaining. He didn’t regret any of it, but he had to move on.”

The defence counsel thanked the witness and sat down.

The prosecutor arose. “Mr Farrell, did you know of Dr Watson’s addiction?”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“Was Dr Watson a drinker?”

“Sure. Like anyone else, he had a few drinks in an evening.”

“Did you ever witness him intoxicated?”

“A few times,” he said, grinning, “but I was so plastered myself that I couldn’t tell you much about it.”

The audience tittered.

“Did you ever witness him lose his temper at her?”

“I’ve said so. They quarrelled. Generally, he got the worst of it. He wasn’t violent—”

“Did he approve of her lifestyle?”

“He must have, or he wouldn’t have stayed with her for two years, would he?”

“What changed his mind?”

“I’ve said, he was trying to make a clean break, get away from that crowd.”

“Did you ever hear him say that Miss Morstan was _ruining_ him?”

“No.”

“Mr. Farrell, what was the nature of your relationship with John Watson?”

“After that first meeting, we became friends.”

There was a pause, just long enough to let something sink in. The jury sat up straighter, their pencils poised over their notepads.

“I believe that you were a bit more than friends, Mr Farrell.”

Toby Allerton leapt to his feet. “Objection. My colleague has not asked a question, has made a leading statement, and he can hardly expect—”

“Objection sustained,” the judge said. “Mr. Edwards, please stick to questions, not baseless musings.”

“No more questions,” said the prosecutor, sitting down.

The judge looked over the top of his glasses at Sir Toby. “Has the defence any more witnesses to call?”

“Just one, your honour,” the barrister said. “Doctor Watson will take the stand.”

The courtroom buzzed.

“Then we’ll take a two-hour recess for lunch.” The gavel came down and the courtroom emptied.

I took Mrs Hudson to Simpsons. Once we were settled in, I said, “Tell me about the Morstan woman.”

Mrs Hudson took a sip of tea before replying. “She’s an author. Mysteries, whodunnits, that sort of thing. I know you don’t read detective novels, dear, being a detective yourself— I’m sure you’d figure them all out by the bottom of page three, which would make it quite boring to toil on till the end— but Miss Morstan is very popular. Her sleuth is Diana Archer, a lady detective. Well, _lady_ is a rather generous term. It’s all very modern, with flappers and affairs and cocktails and so on. Cleverly written. I didn’t figure out the last one until near the end. It rather spoils reading mysteries when one has a brilliant detective living in the flat upstairs.”

“Diana, the virgin goddess of the hunt,” I said. “I suppose she is clever enough to understand the implications of bestowing such a name on a flapper. Miss Morstan herself is quite _modern,_ if one can believe Mr Farrell.”

“Goodness me, her life is a regular saga in the society pages. Seen at all the smartest parties, leaving a trail of jilted lovers in her wake. Cocaine and gin, short skirts and fast cars. The family’s rich, though it always seems to me that so much of wealth these days is paper and liable to be reduced to ashes before you know it. Her mother was Honoria Dufour, you know, the opera singer. I heard her once. Lovely contralto. Died crossing in the Titanic. Her father was William Morstan, who made a small fortune during the war with tinned foods. It isn’t old wealth on either side, at any rate, though they try to pass as upper-class because one of the grandfathers was an Earl, or maybe a Viscount. I think they have property in Kent. William Morstan died several years ago, and his son, Mary’s brother, manages the business now.”

“How does the family feel about her fame?”

“Well, they haven’t publicly denounced her, but I can’t imagine they like it. Writing mysteries may provide her some income, but it’s not literary, is it? If they’re trying to gain social status, she’s a liability. All those dead bodies, and gunshot wounds and knowing about poisons and other unsavoury things.”

“And what about John Watson? How does he fit into this degenerate lifestyle she’s adopted? He doesn’t present a very degenerate profile, does he?”

“Well, you have to admit he’s handsome,” she replied, smiling.

“So, he’s an ornament?”

“I should think he’s more than that. Everybody knows that he’s Arthur Boyd.”

“Arthur Boyd?”

“Diana Archer’s lover. It’s obvious, when you read the books. In the first place, he’s a doctor. He accompanies Diana to crime scenes, explains all the medical bits. And he’s a former soldier who served in France, like Dr Watson. And the way she describes him in the stories— well, you’d have to be blind not to see it. Miss Morstan doesn’t keep her lovers around long; two years with Dr Watson is practically a marriage for her.”

I decided that maybe I needed to read these books. “You don’t think he did it. Why?”

“I don’t,” she said resolutely. “He seems like a lovely man, in spite of the allegations that he has a temper. What man could abide a woman like that without occasionally getting angry? I know that you can’t use that as evidence for a thing like murder— though Sir Toby did make an effort to prove his character— but I do believe that intuition counts for something. And it isn’t just that. Dr Watson had broken off with Miss Morstan. The last thing he would want to do is to murder her, when he’d already escaped her clutches.”

I smiled. “You don’t like her.”

She made a wry face. “Speak ill of the dead and all that, well— no, I didn’t like what I knew of her. It was as if... well, the woman is dead. It isn’t decent to talk dirt about her now.”

“She never took pains to hide her transgressions, though, did she? She probably would have loved being known as the woman John Watson murdered. Notoriety et cetera. Probably would be delighted that her sales have gone through the roof.”

“I believe you’re right, Mr Holmes,” she replied, nodding. “I only meant that she is the kind of woman other women dislike. Runs down her own sex. Makes the rest of us look like fussy old maids for not wearing lipstick and showing our knees.”

“I trust your intuition, Mrs H,” I replied. “Your impressions of people always point me in the right direction. If he were angry, though— the prosecution did paint him as a man with a temper. And it must have angered him to know that she had other lovers.”

“A crime of passion, then?”

I had to admit that there was nothing passionately angry about injecting a person with morphine. “A crime of impulse, perhaps. He saw an opportunity and took it.”

“The way I see it, if he was angry, he would rather see her pining than simply dead. There’s a word for it I believe, the pleasure of seeing another suffer. One of the advantages of being the one to leave. _Liebestraum_ , I think. No, that was Liszt. _Lover’s Dream._ ” She frowned, thinking.

“ _Schadenfreude_. Pleasure at seeing another’s pain.”

“That’s it.” Her face cleared. “Mother insisted that we all learn French. Father wanted German, but Mother said it sounded vulgar. She always overruled on matters of vulgarity.”

I thoroughly trusted Mrs Hudson’s insight; after all, she’d had the perspicacity to leave her own husband. For what he’d put her through, I had made sure he suffered. This was why I could afford the rent on Baker Street.

“It seems to me,” she continued, “that the prosecution has a weak case and is seeking to bolster it by dragging the good doctor through the mud. It was quite disgusting the things their witnesses implied about the man. I always think innuendo is worse that libel. Or is it slander? Slander is spoken, yes? But innuendo is the worst because they can always back away from it, saying _that’s not what we meant,_ while everyone knows exactly what they meant, and now it’s stuck in the jury’s mind that Dr Watson is a horrible, degenerate person.”

I smiled. “And what does your intuition say about the man?”

“He’s a veteran of the Great War, a survivor of Arras. We’ve seen so many of these survivors return and struggle to find themselves. Instead, they lose themselves in alcohol and drugs. All those missing limbs, it’s no wonder they feel useless. We serve them lunch down at my church every Wednesday, and they’re just so thankful that someone notices them. It’s terribly cruel that we expect our boys to go overseas and protect Britain, and then ignore them when they return home.”

“Do you believe the drug allegations— that he was an addict?”

“As I’ve often observed, there is more than one kind of pain. The boys who served in the trenches, even the ones who returned in one piece, felt that pain. And it wasn’t until the war that we even began to understand the addictive properties of morphine. I remember when I was a girl, one could buy it at the chemist without a doctor’s say-so. That and cocaine, too. I suppose there were many addicts in those days, but we just didn’t realise it.”

“So what happened to John Watson? Is he a good man with battle fatigue? An upright man gone wrong? A fallen man trying to dig his way out of degeneracy?”

She sighed. “I believe that Miss Morstan took a good man and used him. He was her toy, poor man, and when he finally decided he’d had enough, she wouldn’t let him go.”

“Then who killed her?”

“She might have killed herself. Perhaps it was an accident, an overdose. She was an addict, and he wasn’t giving her enough. Naturally, she found other suppliers. In those circles, every party has a dealer. He said that he’d visited her that evening, and she pleaded with him. He gave her a dose, and after he left, she might have given herself more from a hidden stash.”

“But there was no syringe found at the scene,” I pointed out. “No bottle. Watson may have lied. He could have given her an overdose.”

“I don’t believe it. Maybe someone disposed of it, the cleaning woman or somebody. Maybe she tossed it herself. He is a good man, an ethical doctor. He would not, _could_ not have killed her in such way.”

“Then who gave her the overdose?”

“Her body was discovered by Miss Pugh. She knew of her habit and might have hidden the evidence.”

“To what end?”

She sighed again. “Mr Holmes, I don’t know who did, but there are many people who might have wished she were dead. Dr Watson did not kill her. If you had been there, perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here discussing it. You would have seen through it all, sorted the clues, and this entire trial would have been unnecessary.”

“You may be right,” I said. “If you are, I hope his testimony this afternoon will convince the jury.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson testifies in his own defence.

We returned to the gallery in time to recover our seats. The conversation around us was intensely divided between those who believed Watson had killed Mary Morstan, and those who thought he was innocent, but the tension level was more like that of the last innings of a cricket match than the life or death decision to be faced by the jury. And the focus was on the man who was about to take the witness stand.

The prosecutor and the defence counsel entered, followed by the judge. We all took our seats and watched John Watson stand, his hand on a Bible, and swear to tell _the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth._

 _So help him God,_ I silently added.

I had come to the court prepared to be analytical, examining the evidence and looking for errors, but found myself wishing for him to be innocent. Mrs Hudson had good instincts about people, and if she thought he hadn’t done it, there was a better than average chance it was true. Justice, however, is not completely blind, and even innocent men are sent to the gallows. On principle, I did not want to see this happen, but now, at the eleventh hour, there wasn’t much to prevent it. The jury would vote, and it would be decided.

Watching the man’s stoic expression from the side, however, I began to recognise that this was not just another puzzle to stave off my boredom. I had not often been in romantic relationships, and certainly did not believe that a person could fall in love with another person across a room, just by looking at them. But when I saw the light glinting off his hair, the look of patient fortitude on his face, and knew the effort it must be costing him to maintain his composure, I felt that I could not let him die. John Watson had to be saved, and some fate had brought me here to do just that. 

“Please tell the court what happened on the night of August the tenth,” Sir Toby began.

Not surprisingly, the defence strategy was to stick to the course of events on the night of the murder, rather than continuing to delve into the past. No doubt Watson could have told some salacious tales about his mistress, but to do so would be to tar himself as well. The case would have to rest on reasonable doubt, which meant stressing the lack of evidence.

“I returned to my flat from the surgery that day to find a note from Mary,” he began. His voice sounded steady, but perhaps a bit constrained. He was nervous, and had carefully rehearsed what he would say. I could not fault him for that. “She asked me to stop by that evening at nine. I was to have dinner with Bill Murray at seven, so I washed up and went to meet him.”

“Her note to you was read in court. What was your reaction when you received it?”

“I assumed she wasn’t feeling well and wanted something for the pain. We hadn’t spoken in a couple of weeks, and I knew she had a deadline coming.”

“Where were you living at that time?”

“I had taken a flat on Guilford Street, Bolton Mews.”

“Where was Miss Morstan living?”

“She was still on Grosvenor, just east of the the park. Her family owned the building.”

“How long had you and Miss Morstan been living apart?”

“Nearly a month.”

“Had you broken off your relationship at any other time before this?”

“Yes. I’d walked out after an argument before, but only for a night or two. I’d stayed with friends on those occasions. This time I had not returned. I’d taken rooms of my own because I did not plan to go back.”

“Had Miss Morstan accepted this?”

“No. I assumed that part of the reason for her note was that she wanted one more chance to persuade me to come back.”

“Did you discuss Miss Morstan with Mr Murray that evening, or mention that you were going afterwards to meet her?”

“I said that we’d broken it off, nothing more. He does not know her, and I as I’d already had the conversation with her, there was no purpose in discussing it with him. We talked of people we both knew. Afterwards, I headed over to Mary’s.”

“What time was this?”

“It was a bit after nine when we parted, I believe. I arrived at Miss Morstan’s flat at around half nine.”

“And you had your doctor’s bag with you?”

“Yes. I knew she might need an injection for migraine.”

“So you admit that you had morphine and a syringe in your bag?”

“Of course.”

“And how did you find her?”

“She was in a state. I’d often seen her like this, so I was prepared.”

“What do you mean when you say she was _in a state_?”

“She was in a bad temper, emotionally distraught and agitated. She cried a bit and begged me to come back, saying that she could not focus since I’d left, that she hadn’t written a word. I asked her whether she was taking care of herself— sleeping and eating. It’s usual for her to sleep little for days on end, and then collapse, but it isn’t healthy. My concern was for her health.”

“Other than migraines, did she have any other health problems?”

“No. In spite of some bad habits, she was very healthy. Her drinking could be excessive, but it wasn’t a daily thing, and she wasn’t a solitary drinker. Cocaine was normally for partying, and morphine was for pain.”

“Did she admit to taking any drugs before you arrived?”

“She guessed that she’d had some cocaine, and that was partly the reason for her pique. She did not deny it. What she said was _what else is left for me?_ She was extremely agitated, and stated that I had abandoned her at a time when she most needed me.”

“How did you interpret that statement?”

“She had a deadline for her publisher, and feared she wouldn’t be able to meet it.”

“You did not see any darker meaning in her words?”

“No. She had often been thus when I lived with her, and I had come to consider it a phase of her creative process. She needed to push herself to the extreme in order to write. In such a state, she would finally get an inspiration, work feverishly for a few days, and the chapter would be finished. Then she would crash, sleep for a day, and the cycle would resume.”

“In this process, did you ever consider her suicidal?”

“No. I did worry sometimes that she might accidentally overdose if she took it into her own hands, which is why I continued to treat her. She was impatient for the drugs to work, especially when she had a headache, and would often beg for more.”

“Did you inject her with morphine that evening?”

“At her request, I did, though not a large dose. She complained of a headache, which was common enough with her. I don’t know what her consumption had been since I’d left, so it may have been withdrawal as well. Her tolerance was not as high as a true addict, though she clearly craved both cocaine and morphine. It was more of an emotional dependence.”

“What state was she in when you left, and what time was that?”

“I waited until she was calmer before I left, but she was still awake. She did not beg me to stay, but indicated that she was going to bed. The clock was striking half ten when I went out the door and caught a cab home.”

“Did you leave anything behind?”

“No. She knew how to inject herself, but I’ve never left her with a syringe or drugs. When I lived there, she sometimes went in my bag and took them, and that was the reason for several quarrels we had.”

“When did you learn she had died?”

“The following day, late morning. Because I wasn’t living with her, I suppose no one thought to call me. It was only when her neighbour, Miss Pugh, mentioned seeing me there that the police came and arrested me.”

“The receptionist at your clinic testified that you laughed when you heard Miss Morstan was dead. Can you explain your reaction?”

“I couldn’t believe it. Mary was like a force of nature, relentless and unstoppable. I couldn’t imagine her killing herself, and I couldn’t think of anyone who might want to do it for her. My first reaction was that it was a joke she was playing on me, trying to get me to come back.”

“Thank you, Dr Watson.”

The prosecutor was not gentle. “How is it that you, a general physician who treats mainly rashes and stuffy noses, were in possession of morphine, a controlled substance under the Dangerous Drugs Act of 1920?”

“I treat a variety of ailments, and not all at the surgery,” he replied. “There are a few patients who cannot come in. During the time in question, I was making frequent house calls on an elderly woman dying of cancer, so I kept a vial of morphine in my bag. One can hardly worry about addiction in such cases.”

“I suppose this makes sense, coming from an addict. Are you not a drug user yourself, Doctor? Are you not addicted to morphine?”

“Objection!” Sir Toby rose. “The question is not relevant to the case.”

Mr Edwards inclined his head towards the judge. “Your honour, the question goes to Dr Watson’s judgment about dosing a patient with morphine.”

“I will allow it.”

The prosecutor turned to the witness, a patient smile on his face. “Doctor?”

“Morphine has been a widely-prescribed drug for years,” Watson said. “It wasn’t until the war that we began to question its safety. New regulations were instituted as a result. Yes, I was given morphine in France. Addiction can happen very quickly, and I did become dependent on it. I overcame this addiction. And yes, my experience does affect my judgment. Having seen such dependence first hand, understanding the addictive power of the drug, I was more careful, and exercised extreme caution in its use.”

“Dr Watson, you injected an addict with morphine. How is that _extreme caution_?”

“Miss Morstan was not an addict. I gave her the minimum standard dose for a severe, debilitating headache, which was what she had complained of. Having seen her in the throes of a migraine before, I felt it was a reasonable diagnosis and a cautious treatment. I gave her only enough to let her relax through the pain.”

“So, you diagnosed her and gave her an injection. But you were there for over an hour, according to your own statement, given to the police. What were you doing all that time?”

“When I arrived, she was tearful, and needed to talk. Since I was the cause of those tears, I thought I owed her that.” He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head slightly. “She tried to persuade me to stay, promised that she had stopped seeing other men, even suggested that we should get married. When she saw that I was not changing my mind, she told me she was getting a migraine and asked for an injection. I injected her and waited until it seemed to be taking effect. She was conscious when I left.”

“But no one saw you leave, and you spoke to no one else, saw no one, went directly home, and went to bed. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s what happened.”

“Miss Morstan proposed marriage, you said?” The prosecutor gave him a puzzled smile. “And you declined? Did you not consider making her an honest woman?”

“She suggested it. I believe her words were, _maybe we should just tie the knot._ ” He shook his head. “It was a bluff, though, not a real proposal. She had expressed her opposition to marriage so many times that I did not take her seriously.”

“How long did the argument go on?”

“Most of the hour,” he replied.

“So you were rather worn out by the time you gave her the injection?”

“I suppose I was.”

“Might you have given her more than your judgment would ordinarily have allowed?”

Watson straightened his back and sat forward in his chair. “My ability to judge whether a patient needs medication, and how much, has been tested on the battlefields and in the field hospitals of France, sir. I know how much is too much.”

Mr Edwards smiled. “Of course. Miss Pugh, who lives downstairs from Miss Morstan, testified that she heard angry shouting during your visit, the voices of both a man and a woman.”

“That is what I meant when I said she was in a temper,” Watson replied mildly. There was an edge to his voice. “I admit that we argued.”

“You said that Miss Morstan was angry and tearful, but you did not say you shouted at her. I ask you now, did you raise your voice?”

Watson pressed his lips together for a moment, as if he were trying to keep himself under control. “I do not deny that I have a temper. Miss Pugh has often heard us argue. That evening I felt that all had been said, and that Mary— Miss Morstan was refusing to accept my answer. I was irritated, and I’m sure my voice could be heard from the downstairs flat.”

“Do you recall making any threats? Did you say, _I will not let you ruin me?_ ”

“I may have said that. It was an argument we’d had before, the basis of it being that she wanted me to give her freer access to the drugs. I refused. As a doctor, I am bound to uphold standards of my profession, to _first_ _do no harm_. I had often warned her of the dangers of becoming addicted to drugs. This was part of what had prompted me to break off with her.” He raised his chin, a defiant look in his eyes. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, nothing illegal, and if any of my actions have been misconstrued, I am prepared to defend my reputation.”

“Did she ever threaten to ruin your reputation, revealing things that you would rather not have publicised?”

“She had once threatened me with this, but because I freely admit everything she might have revealed, she had no power over me.”

“The drugs were part of what prompted you to break off, you said— what other reasons did you have?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. Looking directly at the prosecutor, he said, “I was tired of living like that, of feeling like her plaything. I needed to get myself on a better track before it was too late.”

“Too late?”

“I do not deny that I participated in that lifestyle. She played the tune, and I danced. The alcohol, the hours, the aimlessness— I felt…” He gave an exasperated huff. “I’m a military man. I needed to exercise some discipline. Being with her was not helping me to do that.”

“And how were you planning to stop her from _ruining_ you?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“No more questions.”

The questioning over, closing statements followed. The prosecution reminded the jury that John Watson was a man with a temper, a man who gave dope to an addict, attended parties with people who disregarded laws and morality. He had free access to the drug used to kill her. Having been humiliated by her many affairs, he reasonably felt his reputation threatened by Mary Morstan, giving him a solid motive. Though he had broken off with her, he went back to see her when she asked him to, providing him with an opportunity to kill her. They had been heard arguing. He was the last person to see her alive, and admitted he had injected her with morphine. ( _“And what was to stop him from giving her just a bit more, just enough that he would not have to worry ever again about her ruining him?”_ ) The drug was in his possession when arrested. There was no other plausible explanation for what had happened on the night of August the tenth, when she died, and though John Watson was a doctor, a licensed professional who had sworn to do no harm, he was the only one with means, motive, and opportunity.

The Crown rested its case.

Sir Toby stood before the jury. “The verdict you must now consider is a serious responsibility. A man’s life hangs in the balance, and you must be positive that he is guilty before you take that away from him. There is no reparation if you get this wrong. If you have any reasonable doubt, you must acquit this man. In this, a small uncertainty is as significant as the greatest doubt. It does not matter what you think of him as a person, what you think of Miss Morstan, or how you judge their lifestyle. What you must consider are the facts.”

He paused and looked at the defendant. Watson’s back was straight, his head lowered a bit. I could not see his face from where I sat.

The advocate for the defence turned back towards the jury. “John Watson had no reason to kill Mary Morstan, having already separated himself from her influence. Look at the man: he is a veteran, a soldier who defended his country. He may have fallen into a wanton lifestyle, but he has resolutely separated himself from that group of people and their way of life. He admits to the mistakes he made while he was in a relationship with Mary Morstan, but has done nothing illegal for which he might have been blackmailed by her. He had morphine, but did not give her the dose that killed her. He had the opportunity, but did not take it; on the contrary, he cared for her as a doctor, refused her when she was trying to manipulate him into giving her more drugs than medical ethics allowed. He had no reason to want her dead, has received no benefit from her death, and the lack of a credible motive throws into doubt the entire case against him. To condemn a man on such tenuous grounds would be a tragedy. You must acquit John Watson.”

The judge gave the jury instructions, repeating that the verdict must be unanimous, and that they must acquit if there was any reasonable doubt as to the defendant’s guilt.

Once the jury was out for deliberation, I sought out Lestrade, who had investigated the murder.

“Well, Holmes.” The inspector’s smile was smug. “You see now that we can actually solve cases when you’re not around to help. How was your stay on the continent?”

“Tedious, though I’ve added another snuff box to my collection,” I said. “I wish I’d been here instead, so you wouldn’t have botched this one so badly.”

“Botched! The case is air-tight. He was the last person to see her, no needle or bottle when she was found, and the argument—”

“Why, it’s almost as if you were there, Lestrade— except that you weren’t, and you are simply guessing.”

“A reasonable hypothesis based on the available evidence,” he replied, frowning at me. “What other conclusion can there be?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But you’ve missed something. Someone was clever, too clever for Scotland Yard, it seems. But it doesn’t matter now that it’s in the jury’s hands. I’m afraid he’s done for.”

Lestrade looked disturbed. He was a good policeman, I had always thought, and though his pride sometimes got in the way of reason, he was always willing to be corrected. Now his confidence was shaken, and he would worry about what he missed.

“If you really believe that, Holmes, I hope you’ll work quickly, dig up whatever we’ve missed, and get him a re-trial. If they give him the death sentence, as they likely will, it will be carried out within weeks, unless his attorneys can get him a stay of execution.”

I recalled the faces of the jury: three tradesmen, one weary and ready to go home, one ill-tempered and argumentative, and one overly impressed with himself and feeling unappreciated; one executive who kept looking at his watch impatiently; two workmen, one a builder, the other a cabinet maker; an academic-looking man; a retired typesetter; a bearded man of artistic appearance; a dressmaker who owned a small shop; a prim, elderly lady with perfect posture; and a spinster school teacher. There was not much pity in those faces.

A stay of execution would be hard to obtain. If it was granted, I would have to work very quickly. At least I’d have Lestrade’s cooperation, now that I’d sown doubt in his mind.

I would need to talk with Sir Toby as well. Character witnesses are necessary in cases like this one, where the physical evidence is not compelling. Stamford’s testimony had a neutral effect; he merely created an impression of Watson as a man who’d had friends but not kept in touch. Murray had been a good choice, until the prosecutor exposed something the defence had not foreseen: the army incident, the man he’d severely beaten. It was no doubt the action of a moral man, outraged by terrible abuse, but the defence should have known and been prepared.

Farrell was chosen, I could see, because he knew them both. His function had been to show that Watson hadn’t abused her, that Mary was the impulsive and volatile one. In this case, though, his testimony had an ambiguous effect. It made Watson look like a man manipulated and humiliated by a woman, which naturally strengthened the prosecution’s case that he had killed her to avoid further humiliation and possible exposure.

I returned to my seat and smoked a cigarette. Understanding my mood, Mrs Hudson sat patiently knitting while I fidgeted and and listened to the conversations around me. Every now and then she patted my hand.

Dinner time passed. Some left to find sandwiches when five o’clock came and went. It was nearly seven when the jury’s return was announced and everyone scrambled for their seats. The court rose, the judge took his chair, and the jury was ushered back in. I studied their faces.

“They look angry,” Mrs Hudson remarked. “Not like people who have just condemned a murderer. I would have expected a sort of solemn smugness, perhaps. But anger?”

I agreed with her assessment. “I wonder… Your friend Mrs Turner is holding her head high. Look at her— eyes like fire.”

“She knows how to stand up to a bully, Mr Holmes.” She nodded towards the jury box. “I can spot a couple of bullies in that box.”

“By Jove,” I muttered. “Kudos, Mrs Turner. Maybe there is hope.”

The prisoner was returned to the dock and everyone took their seats.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

The foreman cast a baleful eye at the prim spinster, who had folded her hands and closed her eyes as if in an attitude of prayer. “I’m afraid we have not,” he said.

“Is there any assistance I may give you? Do you require help on any legal questions?”

“No, my lord. We simply cannot agree.”

“I will ask you to try again,” the judge said. “If you still cannot reach a verdict after you have given it your best, you must return and let the court know.”

The jury filed out once more, their faces resigned, and my hope grew.

“Mrs Turner is a very moral woman,” said Mrs Hudson. She paused to count the stitches on her needle. “I’m sure her conscience won’t let her be talked into agreeing.”

“Thank God,” I murmured. “If she can hold out and get us a mistrial, I’m going to buy that woman a new hat, or take her out to dinner, or something.”

It didn’t take the jury long this time to decide that they were hopelessly deadlocked. Once this fact had been reported (the foreman using the words _till Doomsday_ to describe the situation), the judge discharged the jury and ordered a new trial.

With Mrs Hudson, I waited outside the courthouse for Mrs Turner. She came down the steps, a tiny woman with a stubborn look on her face.

“Idiots,” she said. “As if I could vote for hanging a man, when I’m certain he didn’t do it!”

“Now, at least, he has a chance to prove his innocence,” Mrs Hudson said. “Mr Holmes is going to help the police take another look.”

“Good,” she replied. “I’m glad it was worth something, then.”

We took her back to Baker Street in a cab. In spite of the late hour, Mrs Hudson made tea and sliced some cake. I’d had lunch, so I wasn’t hungry, only eager to hear what had been discussed in the jury room.

“How many voted _not guilty?_ ” I asked.

“There were three of us,” Mrs Turner said. “At first it was just me, but the school teacher sided with me. She agreed that they hadn’t proved the case. And the young man with the beard was tired of the professor trying to bully him. He’s an artist, and understands these bohemian types. The rest of them just wanted to end it so they could go home and have some dinner. I understand the reason the jury is kept on like that without feeding them, but I wonder if people might be more reasonable with some food in their bellies. I told them that I could go on for hours if need be, and the artist seconded it, saying he was quite used to staying up all night.”

“Why did he vote not guilty?”

“He knew people who _ran in their crowd_ , as he put it, though he didn’t know the Morstan woman personally. And he is familiar with the lifestyle— the gin, the dope, and the odd hours. He said it was plausible, what Watson said. And the prosecution hadn’t proven that someone else couldn’t have done it.”

“Well,” I said. “We know she didn’t give herself the injection, or she wasn’t alone when she did, since that would have left evidence in the form of a syringe and a bottle.”

“Might she have taken a pill of some sort?” Mrs Hudson ventured.

“Possibly. There are pill forms of the narcotic. Watson said she was not asleep when he left, and there is nothing to say someone didn’t visit the flat later that night. The time of death was estimated at around midnight, but there are many factors that could have affected that.” I made a mental note to ask Lestrade if the flat had been searched for anything she might have consumed. I was sure he had been thorough, but I’ve been at enough crime scenes to understand how things are overlooked.

Since it was now after midnight, Mrs Hudson invited her friend to spend the night. I retired to my rooms to think over what I would say to Sir Toby in the morning.

As I sat in my chair, smoking, I thought of John Watson’s expression at the moment the mistrial was declared: it was the face of a condemned man unwilling to trust his sudden luck. He had not expected a second chance, but was afraid the outcome would be the same, that he’d be put through the same misery again with all his luck run out in the end.

I would remember that look for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Holmes interviews Watson.


	3. Three

My acquaintance with Toby Allerton dated back to my childhood. He and my father had been classmates, attending both Eton and Oxford together. On graduation, my father went to work for the government, while his friend joined a prestigious law firm, Millbank, Eddy, and Sudworth. Sir Toby had been an advocate in some of the most notorious murder cases over the past twenty years. More times than not, he’d seen his client vindicated. I wondered who had paid him to represent Watson.

I’d dressed carefully for my meeting with the advocate, choosing navy and maroon stripes for my tie in preference to the new paisley I’d picked up in France. A dark grey suit and my Homburg, two seasons old now, made me look serious and sober. Fedoras were more stylish, but I did not want to look like a man who thought too much about hats. I needed to radiate confidence and maturity.Though I was almost thirty, I was still Mycroft’s little brother, the one who was always finding himself in a spot of trouble, and I needed to make a more serious impression on the barrister.

A secretary asked my name and then disappeared. Almost at once, Sir Toby appeared and came out to shake my hand.

“Sherlock! What a pleasure,” he said. “What brings you here today?”

“I’m here about the Watson case,” I replied. “I think I might be able to help you.”

He grinned and clapped his hands together. “Well, we’ve got the big guns lined up. I don’t suppose it could hurt to have you on board as well.”

When I entered his office, I saw at once who the “big gun” was: my brother Mycroft.

Sir Toby introduced me to Mr Pierce, the lead solicitor for the defence. As we shook hands, Pierce said, “You’re Mycroft’s brother, then? The one who works with Scotland Yard?”

“I am. For two months I’ve been abroad, working on a case.” I thought of taking out my new snuff box and seeing if anyone noticed the large, purple stone set in the top, which might give me a chance to boast of my recent successes in Europe, but decided it would seem overbearing. Instead I said, “I’m quite sure we’ll get an acquittal on this, now that I’m able to devote myself to the case.”

Mr Pierce nodded. “Well, that’s the goal, obviously, to create enough doubt to swing the jury. But so much depends on who’s sitting in the box. I thought we might do well with nine out of the twelve being men, but evidently they were not able to sway the ladies. I wish we could know how they all voted.”

“Three voted not guilty,” I said. “Two of the women, and one man, the artist.”

“You have inside information, Sherlock?” asked Sir Toby.

“My landlady is friends with the elderly woman, Mrs Turner. She was one who held out against the rest. The school teacher decided to side with her because she didn’t think the prosecution had proved guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“I assumed the women would think him guilty,” said Mr Pierce. “One of their sex being murdered by a man— they would likely be prejudiced from the start.”

“Where a handsome man is being cast as the victim of an unscrupulous harlot, women will stab their own kind in the back,” I said. “Mrs Turner, however, voted _not guilty_ on principle. She did not think they had proved their case. The other woman agreed. The third _not guilty_ vote was the artist. He said it didn’t make sense for Watson to kill her because he’d already left her and had nothing further to gain from her death.”

Sir Toby nodded. “Do you have any thoughts on what our strategy should be?”

Mr Pierce took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “To be honest, I’m not sure how much difference we can make. We were lucky this time, with three people willing to vote _not guilty_. Of course, we’ll do our very best, regardless of how grim it looks.”

“What’s your idea, Sherlock?” Sir Toby asked.

“My idea is that your client is innocent, and we should look for the evidence that will prove this. I admit it’s a novel idea, but I happen to believe he did not kill Mary Morstan.”

Mycroft gave me a baleful look. “Sherlock, I know you hold that Scotland Yard is incompetent, but in this case, even a blind man could see what happened.”

I might have admitted that my brother’s intelligence surpassed my own, but I also knew that Mycroft had a flaw, in that he trusted his own superior mind and did not question his own conclusions. Once he had looked at a situation from every angle, he saw his own interpretation as the inevitable result. In the present case, he had undoubtedly looked at the evidence, had probably even considered the possibility of what might have been missed. But Mycroft was an armchair detective, unwilling to budge himself out of a chair to do legwork. Having worked many crime scenes, I knew that things are always missed, and never trusted my first hunches. Had I only the description of the evidence before me, I might have drawn the same conclusions. But there was more to this case. I was certain of it.

“It might help if we all believed in Dr Watson’s innocence,” I said.

“What makes you think we don’t?” asked Sir Toby.

“You’re all elated that you managed to get a new trial,” I replied. “It’s more than you ever expected. So, who’s paying you? Clearly Dr Watson has no money. _Cui bono_? Perhaps Miss Morstan’s next book might be rushed into print and sell very well, provided it’s an interesting trial. Doesn’t really matter to her publishers, I suppose, whether he killed her or she killed herself or the butler did it. _They_ will make a killing. Free publicity. New editions of all her previous books will be printed. They might even find a few manuscripts in the drawer that can be dusted off and sold.”

“We’re not at liberty to say who is paying,” Mr Pierce said. “I’m waiting now to hear what they’ll say to the cost of another trial.”

“There won’t be another trial when the charges are dismissed,” I said. “And whatever I do is _pro bono_.”

The advocate nodded. “Very generous of you.”

“You’re confident,” Mr Pierce said. “But we must prepare for disappointment.”

I ignored him rather than pointing out that preparing for disappointment was likely to end in the same. “We must focus on who else might have visited the house that evening. There are obviously others who may have provided the drugs.”

Mr Pierce shook his head. “The witness, Miss Pugh, did not hear any other people enter the house that night. Watson can’t even provide a witness for the time he left.”

“If Miss Pugh was a heavy sleeper,” I replied, “she might not have heard. But someone else may have. Did anyone interview other neighbours? The housekeeper? What about cab drivers, lamp lighters, anyone else who may have had a reason to be out at night?”

“Miss Pugh is a credible witness,” said Pierce. “There seemed no point in interviewing anyone else.”

_Laziness_ , I thought. “Maybe she’s lying.”

“With what motive?”

“Women in love often lie.”

“In love?” said Sir Toby. “Who says she’s love? And with whom?”

“I don’t know. Not yet,” I said. “Someone is lying, and most lies are about two things: love and money.”

“He speaks from experience,” muttered Mycroft.

“Speaking of money,” I said. “Where did Miss Morstan get hers? I’m assuming a writer of detective stories does not make enough to rent a flat in Mayfair. Does she have debts?”

“The family is rich. They own the house, and her brother gave her an allowance.”

“Did he approve of her habits? Did he threaten to cut her off?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Mr Pierce asked. “He did not cut her off, whatever he felt about her lifestyle. And it’s not as if the Morstans had any reputation to uphold. They’re strictly new money.”

“I’m not talking about reputation,” I said. “Money is money. When people don’t have enough, they get nervous. In any case, something isn’t being said. I intend to find out what it is.”

“We have about a month before the new trial,” said Sir Toby. “We may get a more lenient judge and a more open-minded jury, but these are things we can’t control. What will you need to proceed with your investigation?”

“Access to the prisoner. I believe that you, as his counsel, can grant that. Can you make me a clerk or a deputised junior flunkey of some sort?”

The barrister smiled. “I’ll see that you have papers before you leave here. Whatever else you need, just ask. Thank you, Sherlock.”

It wasn’t necessary to see the murder scene. Even thinking of it as a murder scene now, after so many weeks, was odd. I had the police reports, which included diagrams and photographs. But I wanted to see the place for myself, if only to understand the murdered woman a little better, to see the place where she and Watson had lived. Part of this was voyeuristic, I knew.

The building belonged to Charles Morstan, Mary’s brother. Two semi-basement flats, two floors above street level. One of the flats below was still occupied by Miss Pugh, whom I intended to interview, but she wasn’t at home. When I rang the bell, the door was opened by the caretaker, who lived in the other below-ground flat. Fortunately I had nicked one of Lestrade’s badges, and flashed it at her now.

“Mrs Babcock? I’m Detective Holmes with the Met Police.”

“I thought you all were done with the flat,” the woman said. “Nobody’s moved in, though, so I guess it’s all right.” She led me up the stairs and used a key to open the door to the first floor. “I keep the rooms dusted— they said I could—but nothing’s been moved. Until Mr Morstan says they’ve got a tenant, I’m under orders not to touch anything. Bed linens, of course, were taken by your lot. Everything else is as it was, like she’s just stepped out.”

“What’s above?” I asked, pointing up the stairs.

“She sleeps above. There’s more rooms, but Miss Morstan didn’t use all that space. Aside from her bedroom and the other water closet, most of the upstairs rooms are kept shut up, full of old furniture and what-not.”

Mrs Babcock opened the flat and left me to my investigation. It was a large apartment, the rooms taking up the entire floor of the building. The sitting room was spacious, perfect for entertaining, I supposed. A narrow, spiral staircase led up to the bedroom she used.

Mary Morstan was not a tidy person, I divined as I entered the bedroom. Dresses and stockings were draped across the chairs and jewellery left in ashtrays. The bed had been stripped, as the woman had said. I opened a few drawers, saw lingerie, scarves, stockings, rings, bracelets, tiaras, strands of beads. The closet contained mostly flimsy beaded dresses in a variety of colours. A vanity table was stacked with perfume and makeup.

The bed was a double, large enough for two. Unbidden visions of her lying there with Watson came into my mind. The two of them, making love…

I looked into the en suite bath: a footed tub, a washstand, a boiler cupboard with shelves for linens.

A small study next to the bedroom contained a neat, elegant desk where she must have done her writing. Evidently her untidiness did not extend to this area of her life. An Imperial typewriter sat under a dust cover. There were no boxes or stacks of paper, and I assumed that any work in progress had been taken by her agent. She had a dictionary, a thesaurus, a medical reference. I picked up the latter book and opened it.

Something fell out, and I bent to pick it up. It was a photograph made with a box camera. The subject: a younger John Watson, in service dress. It must have been taken while he was in France. He was smiling for the camera, but his eyes were haunted, wary. I wondered who had taken it, what it was about this photo that had caused Mary Morstan to put it between the pages of an article about arsenic poisoning.

I stopped on my way out to thank the caretaker, who was mopping the entry hall. “You were here that night. Why weren’t you called as a witness?”

“I was visiting my sister in Swindon.” She crossed her arms. “At any rate, people were always coming in and out, all hours. I would have taken no notice of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, tipping my hat. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

Families of inmates are always surprised at how stark prison visiting rooms are. This one was not a comfortable parlour, but a white-washed room with a tiny, barred window, a long wooden table, much marred, and a straight-back wooden chair at either end. The guard told me to sit at one end, to keep my hands on top of the table, to neither touch the prisoner nor pass anything across the table. I was to remain seated until I notified the guard that the interview was over and they came to escort the prisoner back to his cell.

Watson entered, his posture military, and I had to restrain myself from jumping up out of respect. He wore the prisoner’s uniform— grey trousers and long-sleeved shirt, no tie, belt, or hat. Without brilliantine, his hair looked much blonder.

“Doctor Watson, I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’ve come with the consent of your solicitors.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes. Nice to put a face to the name.”

It broke my heart a bit to hear him speak so politely. For an innocent man, prison would be unbearable. An ordinary man would be ready to howl at the moon, tear at the bars, and bash his head against the walls. Yet Watson sat smiling almost bashfully, with an open expression on his handsome face. I noted that his eyes, which I’d thought brown, were actually a dark blue.

“Well, it’s one people generally remember,” I said, smiling nervously. “An odd face, perhaps. Makes undercover work a challenge, don’t you know. False beards, spectacles, and greasepaint are my only hope of slipping in among the criminal classes these days.”

“I assume this is the real Sherlock Holmes I’m seeing today,” Watson said. “Not one of his alter egos.”

“I have no reason to conceal myself from you. I’m here to offer my help. A new trial has been ordered, and I intend to see that you are acquitted. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“How can I mind?” he said. “Up until yesterday, things could not have possibly looked worse. Today, I have a chance, and I’ve got London’s foremost detective on my side. Anything you want to know, ask. I haven’t led the most upright life, but I’ll be honest.”

“Your father,” I said. “Why isn’t he here?”

He shook his head. “My father has nothing to do with me. In his mind, I should have died in place of my brother.”

“Your brother died in the war.”

He nodded. “Just a year between us. He joined up when I did. They don’t like to put brothers in the same unit, you know, not wanting to wipe out a family’s line. I went to France, he was sent to Gallipoli. He died six months later.”

“Your father preferred your brother. Why?”

He shrugged. “My father is a strict Anglican. I’ve broken too many commandments.”

“Which commandments? Adultery, I suppose, depending on how you define it. Killing— well, the Almighty never seems to have a problem with war, at least against infidels. So you’re excused on that one. And I assume you haven’t murdered Miss Morstan.” I was babbling like an idiot, but could not stop. “Keeping the Sabbath, taking the Lord’s name in vain, coveting… I think the human race will have to rely on mercy for those. There are a number of activities not explicitly covered by the commandments, however.”

“If you’re asking did I use drugs, I did. When I came back from France, I was in a lot of pain, and we doctors were just beginning to figure out how addictive morphine is. I was hooked for months, and even found ways to get heroin so I could avoid withdrawal. Withdrawal is hell, Mr Holmes. It isn’t pleasant to contemplate all the things you might do to avoid going through it. When I met Mary, I’d mostly conquered it. I don’t think drugs are in and of themselves immoral, but they can lead to undesirable things. There are medical uses for them, one of the few weapons we have against pain. At any rate, I don’t use anymore. Instead I drink, probably more than I should. I don’t care for cocaine, but I believe it’s less addictive than morphine or heroin.”

I had noted the injury to his shoulder, and understood how a man in pain might become addicted. I didn’t mention my own struggles with drugs. “You prescribed for Miss Morstan?”

“Yes, but I did not keep her addicted. She was already somewhat hooked when we met, at least psychologically. She would get severe migraines, and it seemed like the only thing that helped, so I gave it to her, but only small, recommended doses. It was sporadic, not a daily thing. I never gave her drugs for recreation. She preferred cocaine, anyway, and was able to find that on her own.”

“Could you have accidentally overdosed her?”

“No, I am certain I did not. Knowing how easily addiction can take root, I’m very careful about dosing. She wasn’t a regular user of morphine, so she had less tolerance than an addict. I gave her the smallest doses that would work.”

“Could anyone else have given her an injection? Might someone have given her an overdose, either accidental or on purpose?”

“Well, that must be what happened,” he said. “I took my syringe and bottle with me. The only way she could have overdosed was if someone brought it to her. If she’d gone out after I left and injected herself with a dose that large, she would have collapsed before getting home, so I assume someone was there after I left.”

“Miss Pugh would have heard if someone came up, would she not?”

“Bertie is a heavy sleeper. We had some fairly loud midnight rows upstairs, and she rarely complained. Mary always said she could have slept through Armageddon.”

“What if someone brought Mary home in that state? Maybe she went to a party—”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” he said. “At a party or gathering with others, she would drink gin and take cocaine. Morphine deadened her, she said, so she only asked for it when she was in pain or needed to sleep. She enjoyed being the life of every party. But she wasn’t in a party mood that evening.”

“Why did you leave her?”

He gave a short laugh. “Well, there was the pressure to supply her and her friends, but she accepted that I wasn’t doing that. It was one of the things she liked about me, I think, that I was her choirboy. She enjoyed the notion that she was corrupting me. But if I’m going to be honest with you, I have to say that wasn’t really why I left.”

“Why did you?” I asked.

Watson was silent so long, I wondered if I’d pushed him too far.

I tried again. “In court you said you’d decided to change your life, that you were tired of the lack of discipline, but that isn’t really an answer. Did something happen that made you want to change? You don’t have to say. I’m just unbearably curious.”

“It’s hard to explain.” He looked at me, perhaps evaluating my trustworthiness. When he spoke, his voice was lower. “When I came back from the war, I was in a bad state of mind, and had even thought there was no reason to live. I wasn’t fit for anything. Mary found me working in a little clinic, the only medical job I could get, and I was pulled into her orbit. I was her satellite.”

“You loved her.”

“I don’t know if that’s what it was. More like an addiction, something to fill the void inside. As I said, I wasn’t fit for anything, and that included love. But then there was Mary, this irresistible force, and I found myself in this fascinating place that was so different from anything I’d known. Anything felt possible. Here was an entire community of people who made their own rules — painters who weren’t doing still life, poets who didn’t rhyme, musicians who had abandoned the scale. It was like falling down the rabbit hole and discovering a new world. And she wanted me there, at her side. It was intoxicating. I felt alive as I never had.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course, it’s a complete illusion, that life. All of it. But I believed in it, for a while.”

“And then—?”

“I started to see.” He groped for words. “It wasn’t any one thing, it was just that I began to notice the shallowness of all of it. Some of them were actually idealists, but the world they thought they were creating was a fantasy. They weren’t changing anything. They were just refusing to grow up. Mary wasn’t this unbridled, free spirit. Her books were romantic fiction, not art, but she used the dope to lie to herself, pretending to be an artist. She was a parody of herself.” His lovely dark eyes were filled with resignation. “Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“I don’t know exactly what changed me, but once my eyes were open, I couldn’t close them again. I couldn’t pretend any longer.”

“The books she wrote,” I said after a moment had gone by. “I haven’t read them, but I understand you were a character in her stories.”

“Arthur Boyd,” he said. “Whose sole function is to make Diana Archer look brilliant and dangerous and unorthodox.”

“Is that how she saw you?”

“It’s an exaggeration, but there’s an element of truth there.” He regarded me appraisingly. “And what is your stake in this, Mr. Holmes? Do you prefer lost causes?”

“Well, there is a certain draw— I mean, one can only solve so many missing thingummy cases before it all begins to seem rather dull…” I hoped to make him smile again, but those dark eyes did not blink; no sign of amusement showed on that still face. I cleared my throat and continued. “Actually, I’m currently seeking someone to share rooms. I’ve found a very nice flat in central London, affordable for two, but a bit out of my reach. And you’re a doctor, seen a bit of trouble in the war, I imagine, and I thought it might be jolly good fun going out to crime scenes together—” I felt myself beginning to blush, the curse of having fair skin.

“You seem to be overlooking one rather significant thing,” Watson replied evenly. “This round I’ve been dealt a hand that’s kept me in the game, but I may not be so lucky next time. The odds are against a second mistrial, and it seems improbable that another random group of twelve people will agree unanimously that I am innocent. I’m just not that lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”

He grimaced. “People have been wrongly condemned before now.”

“Because I wasn’t there. Had I been on the job, you would now be walking out the doors of this prison.”

Turning his head to the side, Watson smiled. This was the point where most people would have said something about me having a high opinion of myself. But Watson had so far defied all expectations. That was the draw of the man. He was entirely different from other people, but he might pass invisibly through the crowds of ordinary people without drawing a glance. I wondered if Mary had felt this, or if she had only seen the handsome face.

“I see.” He gave me a small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I am grateful for your willingness to exert yourself on my behalf.”

“I realise that I’m looking a bit of an arse at the moment, but I assure you, I’m not quite the fool I seem.” I found myself smiling back. “So, you’ll consider my offer? I think you’ll find the rooms to your liking. And I believe we’d make good partners. You should know, I do play the violin at all hours. Would that bother you?”

“It depends. Some people make the violin an instrument of torture.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then! And I get in the dumps sometimes, don’t talk for days. But if you just leave me alone, I’ll right myself.”

Watson was silent.

“I just think… flatmates ought to know the worst about one another.”

“Well, you already know the worst about me.” His voice was subdued. “I mingle with communists and dope fiends, I had a mistress who led me through dens of iniquity and to whom I gave injections of morphine without a prescription. And I may have murdered her.”

“You didn’t.”

“You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.”

His tone had been light, but now his face contorted, forcing him to cover it with his hands until his control returned. Not wanting to embarrass him, I waited.

When he raised his face, there were tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said in a rough voice. “Thank you for believing in me.”


	4. Four

In a melancholy mood, I sat considering where to begin. All my confidence, on display in the solicitor’s office, had evaporated when I realised that November was nearly over, and the new trial was scheduled to begin the second week in December, giving me less than a month to find new evidence. Time was ticking away while I sat, remembering how John Watson had looked at me with such gratitude, such faith.

“You must eat _something_ , dear.” Mrs Hudson stood before me, holding a tray. “I’ve brought tea and sandwiches to tide you over until dinner.”

“Thank you.” I was not in the mood to eat, but appreciated her concern.

She reached into her apron pocket and held out a book. “And this. It’s the second Diana Archer story. I thought you might need a distraction.”

I took the book and stared at the dust jacket. A red-headed flapper examining a bee through a magnifying lens, a dapper, moustached man wearing a bowler looking over her shoulder.

“He looks a bit like you-know-who, doesn’t he?” she said, smiling.

Indeed he did. The illustrator had obviously used Dr Watson as a model for Dr Boyd. “This is the third book, you say.”

“Her first was _The Puzzle of the Poison Penpal_ , which wasn’t wildly popular. She began to hit her stride in the second, _The Case of the Cat’s Pyjamas,_ where she introduced Arthur Boyd. That book sold well, so she continued with him in _The Business of the Bee’s Knees_ , and then the fans simply expected him.”

I opened the book and turned to the first page, interested to see who Arthur Boyd was.

_Diana Archer regarded herself in the vanity mirror. Fluffing her red hair, she made a provocative little moue at herself. “Honestly, Artie,” she said. “You’ve no reason to be jealous. I’m not partying with Baron Von Brandt. I’m investigating him.”_

_Arthur Boyd gave a small sigh. “My darling, it’s not Von Brandt who worries me—”_

_She slipped her arms around him. “You’re not my father,” she said in a low voice._

_“I should hope not,” he said, kissing her. “If I were, it would be rather shocking for me to rip that silly little dress off of you, as I’m about to do.”_

_“No time for that now,” she said, pushing him away. “I’m on a case, love. Save it for later, when I’ve sorted it all out.” At the door she turned, giving him a seductive smile. “Then I’ll be all yours. Minus the silly dress, of course.” …_

_… “Do shut up, Artie,” Diana snapped. “Honestly, you give me a headache.”_

_She watched his face fall a bit. The light from the window glinted off his fair hair, giving him a sort of halo. He was no angel, she thought, but there was something incorruptible in his character that challenged her, infuriated her, even._

_His dark eyes met her gaze. There was no apology in those lovely eyes, just a weary acceptance that he would always forgive her._

_He might love her. No, he_ must _love her. He belonged to her._

_“Stop giving me that puppy-dog look,” she said. “You’re right, of course.” …_

_… “Diana.” He turned away, clenching his fists. He only ever did that when—_

_“Artie, you’re trembling.”_

_“Do you have any idea?” He turned towards her, his eyes dark. “Of course you don’t. To you, it’s always just an adventure. To me—“_

_“I wasn’t in any danger, love,” she said, lightly sweeping the hair from his forehead. “Come, now. Look at you, all disheveled.”_

_He grabbed her arms. “I’m serious, Diana. You can’t keep running off like this, putting yourself in danger. I know that you don’t… that romance is just a game for you. But this is all I can give you, since you don’t want my heart. I can protect you. That’s what I do, all I have to give you.”_

_She looked up at him through lowered lashes. “What if I do want your heart?”_

_“It’s already yours.” He let go of her and turned away. “It’s always been yours. Do whatever you want with it. Just don’t—“_

_From behind, she slipped her arms around him. “Oh, Artie. I know I’m impossible. Don’t ever leave me.”_

_He put his hands over hers..._

“What do you think?” Mrs Hudson had returned for the tray. The light coming through the windows was greyer now. Already late afternoon, and what had I accomplished? I had read _The Business of the Bee’s Knees_ , figured out the murderer in chapter two, and still kept reading.

“She was in love with him. And she hated him.” I sat up, closing the book. “Overly romantic, but not badly written.”

“Eat something, dear,” she said, holding out the plate of untouched sandwiches. “How many pages did it take you to solve it?”

I selected a sandwich and obligingly took a bite. “Twenty-three. Normally I can solve a mystery from the dust jacket, so I suppose that means she was clever.”

She nodded. “Once she introduced Arthur Boyd, readers clamoured for more of him. He and Diana have a contentious relationship. Very modern, as I’ve said. He’s more traditional, and in _The Mystery of the Jilted Jane_ , he asks her to marry him. She refuses, of course. And naturally he stays.”

“I wonder.”

“What do you wonder, dear? Have another sandwich.”

“He testified that she’d proposed marriage. I wonder if he’d previously asked her and she’d refused.”

“She doesn’t seem like the marrying type.” Mrs Hudson frowned. “Perhaps she was desperate to get him back and thought that would do it. And if he refused, perhaps she thought the drugs would bring him running. If she had a close call, I mean, and he had to rescue her. That’s happened a few times in the books.”

I made a note to ask him about any close calls on my next visit. He’d explained his reasons for leaving her and his refusal to come back, but he’d also admitted to being drawn into her aura. She was a hard woman to say _no_ to, I sensed. Perhaps it didn’t matter, but I would ask.

“How can I help?” Mrs Hudson was looking at me expectantly.

“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “I seem to have lost my ability to reason.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You’ll soon think of something. Right now you’re just worrying about that lovely man sitting in gaol, and it’s making you emotional. He hasconfidence in you, I’m sure— and so do I. You’ll have it figured out, and then…” She smiled. “You’ve been wanting a flatmate. The bedroom upstairs is empty, if you’ll be needing it.”

“You’re right.” I rubbed my eyes. “I am getting too emotional.” Realising what I’d said, I startled. “What’s happening to me, Mrs H? You know I’m not the kind to go all sloppy over that sort of thing. Reason, above all else. That’s been my motto since I was in knee pants. Beastly thing, emotions.”

She set the tray down on the side table. “You know that’s not true, dear. You told me yourself that you had a young man at Cambridge. Not a very nice man, I think, what will all the cocaine and alcohol. And the fast driving. I’m sorry he died, but things were bound to turn out badly, the way he was going. And now you have another chance.”

I sighed. “Another chance. I’m John Watson’s second chance, and I feel useless. I don’t even know where to begin. And please, dear lady, stop me from being so obvious. I don’t mind _you_ seeing through me, but when investigating things, being inscrutable is much preferable to wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve.”

She sat down in the chair opposite, a squashy red thing that seemed designed for someone less lanky than me. “If it were me, I’d start by talking to that woman, the one who lived downstairs. Miss Pugh. She was the one who called the police. Maybe she’ll remember something she didn’t tell them.”

I sat up, grabbing the last sandwich off the tray. “Yes, by Jove! That might be a good place to begin. People who are first on the scene are statistically more likely to be the murderer.”

“She has a very bland face, poor girl. In my day, we would have said she was sweet, which was of course all you could say about a plain girl. Miss Pugh is plain, but I don’t think I could call her sweet. She seemed rather angry to me. It’s clear she has no luck with men. If she were really trying, she might do something with her hair, for a start. A bob doesn’t suit everyone, you know. It doesn’t soften a square face. And it isn’t indecent to wear a bit of rouge, not now. That would brighten her complexion. Young girls these days seem to think there is virtue in looking as ugly as possible, as if everyone is meant to spot their inner beauty, when all we can see is a kind of defiance. I suppose that’s meant to announce their independence, but it’s simply laziness, as I see it. A girl can at least try to look pleasant, instead of scowling all the time as if she’s annoyed at the universe for giving her thick ankles.”

I chuckled. “Sometimes, you amaze me, Mrs Hudson.”

In court, Mrs Hudson had pointed her out. The woman had left a rather negative impression on me— a bit heavy around the middle, probably a gin drinker, a would-be artist who painted ugly pictures and called them honest, a pseudo-intellectual who thought patriarchy was rot, and talked of anarchy as if it were the obvious solution. She no doubt held an image of herself as a bright young thing, the equal of every man.

And now Mrs Hudson had shown me an entire dimension of the woman that I’d missed.

“She resents people who are beautiful,” she went on. “My father never let us give ourselves airs about our looks. Not that we were great beauties, but all of us knew how to catch a young man’s eye. That girl is simply not trying.”

“I think I’ll pay a call on Miss Pugh. Do you recall her first name?”

“Bertha,” was her reply. “Bertha Pugh.”

“A sweet name,” I said. “It trips off the tongue like a poem. I shall endeavour to make myself presentable. Not too masculine, I think. Artistic, perhaps. I have an notion that she’s a Bolshevist, might catch her at that club.”

“Those brown moleskin trousers,” she said, “the ones with the tear in the seat that I mended. That blue jumper, the fair isle. Over it all, your old jacket with the fur collar, the one I always said looked Russian, and your blue scarf.”

“Excellent choice. What would I do without you, Mrs Hudson?”

She gathered the tray, now covered in crumbs. “Starve to death?”

Carrying a second-hand violin in a beat-up case, I went on foot to the neighbourhood where Mary Morstan had lived upstairs from Bertha Pugh, seeing as it was within walking distance of Marylebone. Walking gave me time not only to think about my approach, but also to locate one or two of my Irregulars.

Turning onto Grosvenor Street, I spotted a boy who went by the name of Dill. I explained the errand to him.

“Sure, I seen where she goes,” he responded at once. “Most nights, it’s that club they call Bull something, in Chelsea. The one with all the terrible music and the ugly people.”

“The Bolshevist Club,” I said. “Is she usually alone?”

“Naw. Most nights, she has a bloke with her, or a couple of women.”

I gave the boy a shilling. “Thank you, Dill. Please carry on with your surveillance of the house.”

He gave a cocky salute and resumed slouching against a lamp post.

I arrived at the Bolshevist Club with a cover story, a character background, and an accent, just in case any subterfuge was necessary. My Russian was barely passable, but my French was excellent, and I also knew several members of the club who could help me blend in, one of them being the owner, an Irishman whose real name was George Donohoe, though he went by the name Yuri, a Russian name being a necessity for the owner of a communist club.

As soon as I came through the door, a wave of cabbage and beets hit me in the face. I decided on the spot that an assumed identity would not be necessary, but the costume was still helpful. Looking around, I spotted Yuri in a corner of the room pounding on a very out-of-tune piano. People were sitting on every bit of furniture and the floor, as well, trying to carry on conversations over the din. I picked myway across the room, stepping on a few feet and knocking over one glass of something that might have been beer. Women with charcoaled eyes and heavy brows glanced up at me and carried on shouting at one another.

“My friend!” Yuri called out when he spotted me. He gave me no time to respond, but grabbed my arm and steered me into a room that was only marginally quieter. Two bottles of beer appeared in front of us. “So,” he said. “I know you haven’t come to socialise. What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for Irene. Does she ever come around?”

“She comes, she goes. Who knows? The Woman is not a follower.”

“Does she ever come in with an artist named Bertha Pugh?”

He nodded. “Bertie asked her to sit for a portrait. She only ever paints women, you know. Makes them all look like men.”

“How did the portrait turn out?”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. I’ve never understood Cubism. Doesn’t matter; now the whole movement’s passé, according to people who decide such things. Dada is all the rage.”

“Ah. _This is not a woman, it’s a pipe_. No, that surrealism, isn’t it? Dada is anti-art, am I right?”

“Who knows? Next they’ll be painting tins of soup and calling it art. As long as I can sell them gin and beer, I’ll declare any of it a masterpiece.”

“So, tell me about Bertie Pugh and Irene Adler. Would you call them friends?”

“The Morstan introduced them. And no, not friends. Irene hates everybody, which is why they all adore her.”

“What did the Morstan think of her?” I asked.

Yuri shrugged. “Mary collected people. I think everyone in her collection hoped they’d turn up as character in one of her books.”

“Like John Watson?”

“Watson was a special case. He didn’t care about being Arthur Boyd. I mean, he didn’t consider it a mark of distinction.”

“You mean, he’s a snob.”

“Not at all. He indulged Mary because he hadn’t anything else to give her, I think. Besides the dope.”

“He supplied her?”

“It was rumoured, but I never saw it. At any rate, he would be a fool to peddle that in here. He knew better. We’ve got gin and beer, and maybe I turn my head from some reefer. No hard stuff, though. Drugs change the character of a place. You let that in, you’ll soon have dopers passed out everywhere and the law at your door. I try to keep this place artistic. The coppers know that, and they leave me alone.”

“And where can I find Bertie Pugh?”

“I’ll take you around to Irene,” he said, standing. “If she’s not here, someone will know where to find her. But first, you must play for us.”

After I’d played _Those Were the Days_ twice (to much applause), and an encore of _Dark Eyes,_ Yuri pulled me aside.

“She’s arrived. I told her you wanted to see her and she said, _bring him to me._ ” He grinned. “Like an empress, she summons you.”

I packed up my violin and followed him into one of the back rooms.

In a clingy black dress, her hair beginning to escape a loose confinement, Irene Adler was not a likely empress, but she did hold court. When I entered the room, she was seated with her feet tucked under her upon a slightly stained, but regal-looking settee that might have once graced an upper-class parlour. Her eyes met and held mine for a moment. Then she turned to her companion, a skinny, freckled man with a shock of red hair, and said, “Go get me a drink, silly boy.”

He gave me a sullen look and went off in search of liquor. Motioning for me to take his seat, she swept her eyes over me. “Mister Sherlock Holmes,” she said in that low, thrilling voice I remembered. “Thank God. You’ll do.”

“For what purpose?” I asked, taking the empty seat.

“Better conversation, I hope, than that little fool can provide.” She took a drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. “Now, amuse me. Tell me some romantic story, a crime of passion, perhaps.”

“A woman killed, her lover tried for her murder?” I asked. “That story seems to be on everyone’s lips these days.”

“I’m sure Mary would be pleased to be an object of interest to the celebrated detective.”

“You knew her. You knew them both, you testified.”

“And you’d like my impressions? Very well, but only if you promise to come hear me sing.”

I smiled. “At whatever time and place you wish. I am at your disposal, Miss Adler.”

At this point the little fool returned with a glass of something for Irene. She took it, gave him a cross look, and said, “Scram, darling. I need to talk privately with this gentleman.” She directed a blinding smile at me, and the redhead disappeared.

She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. “When I first met Watson, I thought he was awfully wide-eyed— very pretty, but still... Couldn’t figure him out.”

“You’d known Mary since—“

“Since forever. We were twelve when we met at school. What a brazen thing she was! She always knew what she wanted, even if she couldn’t put it into words. That’s what drew us together, that we weren’t afraid to be what we already were.” She gave me a lazy smile. “You know that, though. What’s gotten you tangled up in this?”

“In the case? I’m a big fan of mysteries, as you know.”

She gave a snort that was somehow elegant, and reached up to release her hair from the chignon. “You’re a big fan of that type.”

“What type?” I was pushing my luck. She would now dissect my character.

“It’s him— the boy toy. Pretty, but not posh. Tedious middle class morality. You can still smell the rugby fields on him. There’s something a bit naive about John Watson, something that wants saving.”

“Irene, whatever you think about me, I’m doing this because I was asked to help by someone who believes him innocent. Tell me about Bertie Pugh. She found Mary in the morning. About seven, I think the police report said. A bit early for an artist to be knocking on her neighbour’s door.”

“Bertie is a dear. She looked after Mary.”

I tried to decide if this was innuendo or just an observation. “They were friends?”

“Mary didn’t have friends. She had followers.”

“She had you,” I pointed out. “So, Bertie was a follower? Look, Irene, why don’t you just tell me what you’re trying so hard not to say?”

“Darling, you’re so boring.” She blew out a final cloud of smoke and stubbed the cigarette out. “Rubbing shoulders with ancient royalty has made you stodgy.”

“Why was Bertie in Mary’s flat at seven in the morning?”

“You’re the detective,” she said. “So, deduce.”

“She saw something. Someone,” I suggested. “She saw Watson arrive. But he left after an hour. She saw someone else, then.”

She laughed. “Nothing unusual in that. People came and went at all hours. Like Waterloo Station.”

“She saw someone she didn’t expect to see, then.”

“Tedious.”

Then it dawned. “She was—“

“Here she is. Ask her yourself.”

“Ask me what?” said Bertie Pugh.

_An artist_ , she called herself. It was convenient that people no longer needed actual talent, I thought, to declare themselves talented. Miss Pugh was much as Mrs Hudson had said, I observed. Unfortunate in looks, a sturdy woman who might have made some farmer a good helpmate— in a time before young women began to despise matrimony and starve themselves to look like sylphs. In court she had worn some godawful dress that made her look like a man in drag, Mrs Hudson had said. Tonight she had given up pretending to be feminine. She wore a man’s jacket and trousers, her bobbed hair tucked behind her ears.

“I’ll talk if you let me sketch you,” she said. “You have an interesting face.”

“As long as you don’t make me look like I’ve been taken apart with a spatula and glued back together,” I replied. “I look silly enough without being abstracted.”

She smirked. “I’m a realist, not an abstractionist.”

“So am I. I much prefer to see things as they are, not as I might wish them to be.”

She pulled a sketchbook and a pencil out of an artist’s satchel. “You’re here because of Watson.”

“I’m here because they didn’t convince a jury of his guilt, giving him a chance to avoid the gallows— which are, you know, a rather final solution to an unsolved crime.”

Looking at me with that metrical stare that artists have when they’re figuring out angles and shapes and shadows, she said, “The death penalty is medieval. As if twelve people have the right to decide what an angry mob might have resolved without all those words.”

“You think he did it.”

“You have eyes like antique glass. I wonder what they look like in daylight.” She began to sketch. “She was tiring of him, and he knew it.”

“But he was the one who broke it off,” I pointed out.

“It was a game they played. When she got bored, she would rag on him and he would leave for a few days. She couldn’t stand being the one abandoned, so she’d make ridiculous promises, persuade him to come back. And he would.”

“But this time—“

“This time, someone talked some sense into her.”

“Who would that be?”

“I told her she was better off without him.” She gave a half-shrug. “She had better options.”

“And you think he killed her because…?”

“Like all men, he’s territorial. He could not stand the idea that she fucked other people.”

“Who were her other beaus?”

She rolled her eyes. “ _Beaus._ You sound like a Victorian. They were boring men, mostly. Handsome and empty. They were just diversions. She didn’t fancy any of them, really.”

“She must have fancied Watson, if she asked him to move in with her. Did they fight about the boring, empty beaus?”

“Among other things.” She gave a harsh laugh. “He wanted to marry her, poor puppy.”

“But he testified that she’d offered marriage, and he refused her.”

“That’s the male ego talking. The truth is, she would never have married him, or anyone else. Not even if that idiot brother of hers was threatening to cut her off. She considered marriage antediluvian and money bourgeois.”

“Of course it is,” I replied. “Money was invented by the bourgeoisie. Awfully handy, though, for paying the rent. And I suppose marriage was invented before the flood, Adam and Eve being the first example. Not a lot of choices in those days. Tell me about the brother. Did he really threaten her?”

“He did.” She reached her hand towards my face, tilted my chin up a bit. “Hold like that.”

“I suppose he didn’t understand her, being a bourgeois man of business and all that.”

“He’s a pig. He’d take her out to lunch every month, pretending to be concerned about her. Then he’d tell her he was cutting her allowance. Made her sick up, every time. Literally. She’d come back to the flat and heave for twenty minutes.”

“Literally,” I repeated, making a mental note to ask Watson about upchucking. “Didn’t she make enough to live on? Did she really need the allowance?”

Bertie shrugged. “She got by, but writing doesn’t produce a regular income, or one as large as people think. And she was supporting Watson, who was paying off debts.”

“What kind of debts?”

“Gambling, mostly. He got in trouble when he came back from France. Battle fatigue, you know, makes people take all kinds of risks. His pension was next to nothing, and he was playing cards at his club, ended up owing more than he could pay off. That’s why he went to work at the clinic. Mary met him there, and he told her his sob story.”

“And she collected him.”

“Like a stray puppy. There.” She turned the tablet so I could see her work.

I was astonished. She had done a very realistic drawing of me, not at all what I had expected. There were the creases at the corners of my eyes, the long chin, the stray curls that I normally tamed with brilliantine. I looked sad, I thought, and wondered how she’d seen that.

“May I keep this?”

Handing it to me, she smiled. “Someday, you must sit for me.”

“I’m flattered.” I remembered Yuri’s words, _she only ever paints women,_ and wondered what it meant that she wanted to paint me.


	5. Five

“I’ve brought you a present,” I said, sweeping into the visitation room.

John Watson smiled a bit wearily. “Thank you. I’ll add it to my collection.”

“Collection?”

He nodded. “I’ve been receiving handkerchiefs. And photographs. Poetry. That sort of thing— from my admirers.”

“Admirers?”

“I hadn’t expected it,” he began, shaking his head. “Apparently, being put on trial for murder has increased my appeal with the ladies. They ardently admire my stoicism, are certain that I’ve been wronged. Several have proposed marriage.”

I was aghast. “Well. I suppose it’s lucky that I only suggested sharing a flat.”

To my surprise, he laughed.

“At any rate, I brought you this,” I said, holding out the magazine. “I assume they keep you rather bored around here, in Limbo. I’m not sure what you ordinarily like to read,” — _seems like a man who reads adventure stories, not monographs, for all that he is a doctor—_ “but this is something I wrote, an article that might help you understand my methods. Not that… Well, I just thought… you might be interested.”

He took it and skimmed through the pages, gauging its length. I had a sudden horror that he would begin to read aloud from it. For some reason, I did not want to see his initial reaction, which I expected would be skepticism. “It’s written for the layman. You, being a doctor, will have no trouble understanding it, of course.”

“ _The Book of Life: The Science of Deduction.”_ He looked up from the magazine and smiled _. “_ Thank you. I would be delighted to read it. I did not know you were a published author.”

“It’s just a trifle,” I replied modestly. “My monographs don’t have a large audience.” I couldn’t resist. “But... you have heard of me?”

“I read the papers. And people love talking about how you can look at a man and tell him his life story.” He tilted his head. “I supposed you’ve deduced everything about me worth knowing. And a few things that aren’t.”

“Battlefield surgeon in the Great War,” I began, not considering whether it was a good idea or not. “Wounded, as a result of which your left hand trembles, forcing you to give up surgery. You gamble—“

“You couldn’t know that just by looking at me. You’ve been talking to people.”

“I confess that I have. Is it true, then? Do you have debts?”

He pressed his lips together, looked to the side and sniffed. Annoyed, then. “Mary did not pay my gambling debts. If that’s what people are telling you, it isn’t true.”

“You still owe money, then?”

He nodded. “I refused to let her pay off debt I’d been foolish enough to run up.”

“But you let her pay other things. Sorry, I’m just repeating what Farrell said on the stand.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I lived with her. She would accept no rent from me, since the house belonged to her family. I continued working at the clinic, and paid for what I could, but she had expensive taste. She bought me clothes I didn’t ask for, wasn’t content to dine cheaply, and took cabs everywhere. When I asked, she just laughed. She said I was paying her in other ways.”

“By being her Arthur Boyd?”

He smiled. “You’ve read the books.”

“Did you ask her to marry you?”

He gave a short laugh. “No. What would be the point? She was incapable of fidelity, and deep down, I’m much too traditional to marry a woman who would not be faithful. I know that sounds awfully middle-class of me, but ours was not that kind of relationship. Had I asked, she would have refused. She knew she was not cut out for marriage.”

“But you stayed with her for two years— living in sin, so to speak.”

“There were no promises between us, no vows to break.”

“Why do you suppose she had Arthur Boyd propose to Diana Archer, and her refuse?”

“To titillate her readers. She loved writing Diana as a woman who doesn’t need anyone, a woman pursued and never captured, and Arthur as the devoted, all-suffering pet. It creates sexual tension, which is a sure draw for readers.”

“Is that how she saw herself?”

“All authors put something of themselves into their characters. I suppose it was an idealised version of who she wanted to be. But she had no interest in solving crimes.” He huffed a small laugh. “That’s why she made Diana a red-head, I think, to draw a line between them. Mary was a natural blonde.”

I imagined that they had made a handsome couple, fair and golden. _Had I seen any pictures of them together?_ I hadn’t, which seemed odd.

“But she wasn’t Diana. You said on the stand that the night she died, she asked if you would marry her. If she was opposed to marriage, why do you think she asked?”

“She wasn’t opposed to marriage for other people. Or if it was her idea, I assume. I was surprised, though, that she would use it as a ploy to get me back.”

“Why did you turn her down?”

“I had made up my mind to leave, and I’d followed through. She hadn’t expected that, and wanted me back. I was done with being manipulated.”

“Tell me about her brother.”

“Charles? I met him a few times. He came round to see her and she introduced me, and I went with her to his office on at least two occasions. He’s older by a few years, struck me as an insufferable prig.”

“He disapproved of her.”

“Naturally. He’s new money trying to fit in with old money. Having a sister like Mary wasn’t exactly helping with that.”

“How is his company doing? Morstan & Sons, I believe it’s called, a family-owned business.”

He shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to such things. I admit I have no head for business.”

“Did Mary own any part of the company?”

“I don’t know. She never said so, but I suppose her interest in anything financial was minimal, as long as he sent her allowance each month.”

“She met him for lunch about once a month. Did you ever go with her?”

“Not invited.” He grinned. “He _really_ didn’t like me. And I didn’t care for him, either.”

“Do you remember her ever being sick after having lunch with him?”

“She had some stomach troubles,” he said. “Mostly because of her irregular habits. She starved herself for days, living on tea and lettuce, then would overdo it, eating rich foods and drinking too much. It’s hard on the gut, living like that. I prescribed bicarbonate of soda when she was in distress.”

“But you don’t remember her losing her lunch?”

He gave me a curious look. “She sometimes made herself vomit, if she felt she’d eaten too much. She liked to eat and drink, but she also liked being thin. But that isn’t what you mean, is it? You think maybe he was poisoning her?”

I smiled. “You’re quick. Miss Pugh mentioned her being sick after those lunches, and I just wondered. Poisons can cause gut trouble. Did you see any sign that she might have ingested anything like that?”

“No, I didn’t. Arsenic would be the easiest to get hold of, but I didn’t see any signs that she was being given that. Among other things, it causes lesions; her skin was perfect. She would have noticed— she was absolutely vain about her appearance. In higher doses, arsenic can also cause abnormal heart rhythms and tingling extremities. She was a bit of a hypochondriac, but never complained about anything like that. Strychnine would be too obvious. Cyanide, botulinum— these things are harder to get. And I don’t believe the man is clever enough to have figured out how to administer a poison without implicating himself. I’m not sure he could even make his own tea without mishap.”

“You know a lot about poisons, Doctor,” I remarked. “More than the average physician, I would say.”

He laughed. “I lived with a writer of murder mysteries. Mary knew enough about poisons to have a degree in toxicology. Look, if he’d wanted his sister dead, Charles would never have gone with poison. He would have paid someone to hit her with a car, or push her down a flight of stairs when she was drunk, or give her—“ He stopped suddenly. “Dear God. Do you think he might have paid someone to inject her with an overdose?”

“That is one of the possibilities I will pursue.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “I’ve been assuming that it was an accidental overdose.”

“Who would you suspect of giving her the dose that killed her?”

“To be honest, I don’t know. She had contacts in that business that I didn’t want to know about. Anyone can get their hands on drugs, if they ask the right people. It annoyed her that I wouldn’t give her morphine only because it was inconvenient to have to track down a supplier. But it wasn’t impossible.”

“Hm.” I nodded. “I’ve been wondering. Do you have any idea who paid for your defence?”

He shook his head. “My father wouldn’t have because I’m already going to hell, as far as he’s concerned. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t have the money.”

“Her publisher?”

“Possibly. A high profile trial certainly hasn’t hurt sales of her books. I haven’t talked with her agent, though, so I couldn’t say. I honestly cannot think of anyone with money who would care if I were hanged.”

This struck me as particularly sad. For John Watson, a man assumed guilty, to be useful only for the newspapers and books his death might sell was unacceptable.

“I care,” I said. “I haven’t a penny to my name, of course, but I will do my utmost to get your name cleared. And then there’s the flatshare. Very nice location.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry. I can’t be making a very good impression on you, joking about… erm….”

“I have confidence in you,” he said earnestly. “And if you are successful, I promise that I’ll consider the flatshare.” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Hell, I’ll marry you if you save my neck.”

I felt my face growing hot. “If such a marriage were possible, Dr Watson, I would certainly hold you to your promise.”

I expected him to laugh, but instead he gave me another beautiful smile. “I am a man of my word, Mr Holmes.”

My next visit was to Wolter and McFee, Literary Agents. I did not suspect them of arranging their client’s death, but hoped they might give me some insight into her character, since that seemed to be an area full of contradictions.

Mr McFee was a small, restless man with wiry hair and rimless glasses pushed up on his forehead, tired eyes that blinked wearily. He looked like a man who read manuscripts all day. I assumed that was what he did.

“You’re wondering about Miss Morstan,” he said, putting on his glasses. “I know who you are, Mr Holmes, and I hope you’re not thinking we had any motive for doing away with her. I admit that sales of her books have gone through the roof since her demise, but we had counted on quite a few more Diana Archer stories from her.”

“Well, you’ve answered my first question, Mr McFee,” I said. “I assume that when a writer of murder mysteries is murdered, it generates a lot of interest, but killing the golden goose, no matter how great the immediate profit, would be a very poor long-term strategy.”

He smiled grimly. “In case you’re wondering, she did have several books outlined, and we may use a ghost writer for those. But we’ll spread them out. Don’t want it to appear as if we’re using her death as a promotion.”

“Was she a profitable writer, then?”

“Oh, very.” He pushed the glasses onto his forehead again. “She captured an entirely new generation of readers. The jazz kids, the flappers— women mostly. Everything she wrote sold. When she added Arthur Boyd as a love interest, readers went crazy. She loved the attention, but sort of despised her fans. We had our secretary answer most of the letters.”

“She received fan mail?”

“When a new book came out, she received hundreds of letters. Between books, it slowed down.”

“Did she ever receive hate mail? I mean, from readers who wanted them married, readers who wanted more smut, less romance, more blood, less gin—“

“Readers were always making suggestions, especially about Diana and Arthur. They suggested plots. A lot of them hated her cheating on him.”

I smiled. “Art imitates life.”

“Yeah, I get that. I don’t remember any threats or anything like that. If you’d like to take a look, we’ve kept them all.”

“I would.”

I followed him into a storage room filled with boxes, floor to ceiling. Some seemed to be unsold copies of books.

“I imagine you’ve sold every copy of her books.”

“We’re reprinting them all as a set, new covers and introductions by other authors.”

“Who will her profits go to now?”

“Depends on if she had a will. I assume not, so her brother will most likely get whatever the books earn. Sort of ironic, since he didn’t actually approve of them.”

He left me to sort through the piles of letters.

After ninety minutes of skimming five hundred and thirty-four hand-written letters, I had discovered eighty-three writers complaining that Diana Archer wasn’t good enough for Arthur Boyd, fourteen that considered Arthur boring, and seventy-eight urging that they get married, one of which suggested they should have twins named Artemis and Apollo. Two letters made vague threats of resigning from the fan club. Nobody threatened to kill Miss Morstan.

My conclusion was that her popularity stemmed from the relationship of her characters. Mrs Hudson had told me this, but now I had statistical proof.

I wandered into Mr McFee’s office. He was peering at a manuscript, muttering to himself. Looking up when he heard me, he smiled. “What do you think?”

“I want your professional opinion. Was Mary Morstan a good writer? I’m not talking about profits or fans or how many books she could churn out in a year. Was her writing any good, in your professional opinion?”

He shrugged. “Not literary, if that’s what you mean. Witty, modern. Good characterisations, tight plots, lots of jazz and gin. She did not transcend the ages; she was very much _à la mode._ ”

“Did you ever meet John Watson?”

“Yes, she brought him by several times. His were the first eyes on every page, she said. If you want my opinion, he’s a better writer than she was, and she knew it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’d started writing a book, at my request.”

“You requested it?”

He nodded. “I saw how he edited her work, the suggestions he made, and asked him if he was interested in writing something of his own. He said he’d think about it, then sent me a couple chapters a few weeks later.”

“And? They were good, I assume, or you wouldn’t mention it. What was his story about?”

“It was what you’d call science fiction. H G Wells sort of thing.”

“And it was good?”

“It was. You can always tell when a writer reads good books. It rubs off on their style. He might have written a Jekyll and Hyde story, or an Invisible Man, or an undiscovered tribe in darkest Africa. I asked him if he could write a murder mystery instead. He said he’d consider it.”

“How did Miss Morstan feel about him crowding into her area?”

“I think she was jealous. She laughed, said Watson didn’t have the ambition to finish a book.”

“Did you agree?”

“I didn’t, as a matter of fact. I believe the Doc is a man who finishes what he starts.”

“He had broken off their affair, you know, and moved out.”

“I know. But she could have kept writing him. And if I’d convinced him to write a series of detective stories too, it would have created a sensation.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

He looked at me curiously. “You never met her, did you?”

I admitted I had not.

“She was the sort of woman a man would die for. Or kill for.”

I stopped by Scotland Yard on my way back to Baker Street to see if Lestrade had turned anything up. I found him sitting at his desk with his feet up.

“Get up, man!” I chided him irritably. “We can’t let the grass grow under our feet.”

Lestrade glared. “I’ve interviewed the neighbours. People were in and out of the building all hours, day and night. Parties, fighting, door slamming, conventional chaos. They learned to ignore it. Nobody could remember anything specific about that night.”

“Useless,” I said, dropping into the other chair. “We need something specific. Did you think about where in the neighbourhood somebody might have disposed of a syringe and a bottle of morphine? Did your men check all the bins?”

“Yes, they checked. But once Dr Watson was arrested, we had his bag, containing what we assumed was the murder weapon.”

“You’re making assumptions. Arse-sumptions, I should say. Capital mistake. Send some of your men back to the neighbourhood to ask about the syringe and bottle. If someone took the evidence out of the flat, they must have tossed it nearby. It’s a nice neighbourhood, so I think a syringe under a bush would be noted. And has anyone talked to cab drivers?”

“Look, Holmes,” he said. “I swear to you that I am taking this seriously. If we’ve made a mistake, I want to fix it— more than anybody— and I’m willing to work around the clock to find anything that will help. The work we’re doing is time-consuming, maybe not as much fun as holding John Watson’s hand, but—“

“I’ve been working, too, Lestrade. He’s given me good information. We need to look into the company— what’s it called? Morstan & Sons. With an ampersand. Tinned foods, I think. Not sure whether they make the tins, or the food, or just put the food in the tins. Charles Morstan, one of the ampersanded sons, is running it now that the father is gone.”

Lestrade frowned. “You think he killed his sister?”

“There’s money in this equation, Lestrade, if I’m not mistaken. Watson was in debt, Mary got an allowance from her brother, and the book sellers are raking in the profits. Money everywhere. My God, even artists need money.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Right,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m going to go consult with my landlady. She has very good instincts about things.”

Mrs Hudson settled into the client chair and regarded me fondly. I am astonished at times with her ability to ignore my many bad qualities as a tenant— the small explosions, the irregular visitors, and the trail of evidence that I have consumed food and changed my shirts, socks, and under garments at irregular intervals. Not to mention the stream of clients coming to my door at all hours. In other words, I am a slob who occupies himself with untidy activities and shady people. She fusses at me daily, and then forgives me.

“And how is Dr Watson?” she asked.

“A bit down. It’s important that I keep his spirits up, I think,” I said. “Don’t you agree? It must be rotten sitting in a cell all day.”

“They let them read books, I’ve heard,” she said. “I hope they don’t put him on the treadmill. So inhumane.”

“No, he’s not yet condemned, just accused, so they can’t actually punish him, other than by feeding him substandard food and making him sleep on a cot.”

“Will they let him have biscuits?” she asked. “I could make some of those shortbreads you like.”

“I’ll ask. Might be that they’ll think we’re smuggling things to him in the shortbread, though, and they’ll have to eat every piece to make sure it’s all right.”

“I’m not making my special shortbread for prison guards,” she said, frowning.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling the warmth of my teacup. “Mrs Hudson, did Mary Morstan love John Watson?”

She made a sour face. “That type of woman doesn’t love a man. She sees the usefulness of a man.”

“Of what use was John Watson to her?”

“A handsome face, a loyal presence. Her muse, perhaps, when it came to writing. Though I’m not sure the Muses care about that kind of writing. Let’s see, Calliope is lyric poetry, I think. Or epic. Lyric is Euterpe. And there is one assigned specifically to love poetry, and one for history, and one for tragedy. Melpomene is tragedy. Perhaps she’s the muse for murder mysteries as well. All those people getting killed in baths, falling on swords, and so forth.”

“So. John Watson, Muse of Murder Mysteries. But she wasn’t very nice to him, from what I’ve learned.”

“True.”

“And he was a better writer, according to her agent.”

“Was he? Perhaps she was jealous of _his_ muse.”

“I don’t see how. She was making money; he was working for pennies, tending sniffles and rashes. He wasn’t writing.” I thought for a moment. “Women are attracted to John Watson. Men are attracted to Mary Morstan. Two unusually attractive people ought to like each other, I suppose. But she treated him badly, and he left her, even when she said she’d marry him.”

“She said that?”

“According to him.”

“She collected people. They wanted to be characters in her stories. So, who would want her dead— badly enough to kill her?”

“Well,” Mrs Hudson said. “We have several candidates, people with motives. Her brother, because she was ruining the family name, or costing him money he didn’t have.”

“He’s my favourite, so far,” I said. “I haven’t met him and I already don’t like him. I shall be very disappointed if he turns out to be a reasonable fellow.”

“Miss Pugh. As you said, the one who finds the body—“

“We still need a motive. What do you suggest?”

“Jealousy.”

“I’m afraid… I don’t think Miss Pugh is interested in men, Mrs H. Not in that way. Perhaps she was envious of Miss Morstan’s commercial success as a writer. I’m not sure how murder would be an answer for that, though.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” she said, chuckling. “She was in love with Mary.”

“Hm. I wondered. But I’m not very good at discerning things, when it comes to women like her. So, she kills Mary because she knows she can never have her— framing Watson, her rival, at the same time?”

“Like a Greek tragedy. I think she might do it.”

“It’s a bit extreme. And not very practical. Artistic temperament can be blamed, perhaps. She drew my picture, you know.” I pulled the sketch out of my pocket. “It surprised me that she did such a good job. Very life-like. I thought— modern art and all, you know— that she might put my eyes on my chin or something.”

Mrs Hudson took the sketch and studied it. “It’s very like you, Sherlock. Though she’s made you look rather sad.”

“Yes, I wasn’t aware that I looked so miserable. Yuri says she paints all her women like men. I’m glad she didn’t make me into a woman.”

She handed back the sketch. “We all have biases, dear.”

I shook myself. “Well. Where does all of this leave us? Any more candidates?”

“What about that man— Farrell? The witness for the defence. Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet.” I remembered the innuendos made at the trial. “Sort of a forgettable fellow. Almost a talent, that. Imagine being able to induce forgetfulness in people. Think of the things one could get away with, and no one would remember. I’ll talk to him next.”

The telephone was ringing. “Just now it would be nice to have a valet or somebody who could answer the phone,” I said, rising and striding towards the offending instrument. “Quite a nuisance, people wanting to talk when you’re having breakfast or putting on your socks.”

“Not your answering service, dear.”

I lifted the receiver. “Hullo? Sherlock Holmes speaking.”

“Sherlock,” said a familiar voice. Deep, throaty, feminine. “You simply must come out tonight.”

“Irene. Where are we going?”

“I’m singing,” she said. “And I want you to hear me.”

“Where? Not at the Bolshevist, I hope. My ears are still ringing, and there is cabbage yet lurking in my sinuses.”

A sensuous chuckle. “No, of course not. We’ll be at Moriarty’s.”

“Well, I’m positively panting to hear you sing, Irene, and I know I promised I would—“

“Mary used to go there.”

“And Watson?”

“Always in tow.”

“Moriarty’s, you say?”

“Nine o’clock. Black tie, love.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night at the Pythagoras: cocktails and conviviality, dancing and deductions, pretentious piffle about art.

I had not been to Moriarty’s club, the Pythagoras, but I knew something about it. The name was a bit of a joke, Moriarty having been a professor of mathematics at Leeds before turning his considerable intelligence to the marketing of jazz, gin, cocaine, and other vices. Everyone knew of the Pythagoras Club, and many hoped for an invitation to party there, but few had heard the name Moriarty. That was the genius and the wonder of the thing: no matter how many times his club was raided, the man never received a citation, never paid a fine or served an hour in gaol. Lestrade ground his teeth in frustration but was resigned, for the time being, to acknowledge, _Not my division._

The only explanation, as I saw it, was that the man had the Clubs and Vice Unit eating out of his hand. There are dishonest cops in every unit, Lestrade says, and Moriarty was positioned to offer attractive bonuses to willing takers. Lestrade himself is the most honest man I know, a straight-arrow cop who wouldn’t dream of accepting money (or anything else) to look the other way. This is one reason I am happy to work with him.

I hated seeing his outrage, though, and had reminded him that eventually Moriarty would be connected to a murder, and then it _would_ be his division. Even the smartest criminal eventually makes a mistake.

I wondered if that had finally happened. Irene wasn’t vain in the usual way; her invitation tonight meant that I was to notice something, not merely hear her sing. If there was a connection between Mary Morstan’s death and James Moriarty, I would find it, and Lestrade would be glad to help me.

Her invitation came at a good moment. I don’t like parties, finding the sensory overload unpleasant, but a night out would provide both a distraction from my worries, and another, possibly related problem to work on.

I know how to dress for and behave at a proper society party, having been instructed in etiquette by my mother and matters of haberdashery by my father, but this occasion was an unknown. The Pythagoras was frequented by authors and actors, bankers and professional beauties. Anyone who wanted to be _seen_ came here.

Though my ability to play a role has been tested under many and varied circumstances, there was no point in trying to be anything other than what I knew myself to be: descendant of country squires, a second son of no great fortune, my only claims to artistic sentiment being my grandmother Vernet, whose brother was the painter, and my violin, which I’d played since I was a child. Though I had been educated among the elite, many of the patrons would be above me, socially. I did not hope to be noticed; in such cases, I would rather fade into the wallpaper than make a sensation.

I put on my best evening wear, expecting that there would be some sort of dress code. Mrs Hudson insisted on inspecting me before my cab arrived.

“You look very handsome,” she declared, brushing invisible dust off my jacket.

“Handsome is not a word many would use to describe me,” I said. Bertie Pugh had called my face _interesting_ , but my adolescence had been a painful period where I lost all my cherubic sweetness and gained only awkward angles and face that is too long to be called _handsome._

“Tut,” she said. “You’re a lovely man. I’m sure if Dr Watson could see you now, he would agree.”

I smiled and kissed her cheek. “And you are a lovely woman, Mrs H.”

“Off with you, now,” she said, blushing.

The cab dropped me on Greek Street in Soho. Irene had instructed me to address the doorman as _Ike_ , which was apparently a signal that I was to be admitted. No doubt he would have some other name, Jake or Monty, on another night.

Inside, the air was filled with jazz and smoke. Both men and women held cigarettes in one hand, a cocktail in the other, squeezing themselves between groups of people who were laughing and drinking. A small orchestra was playing _Nobody’s Business_ and a few couples were toddling around the floor, much closer to one another than my mother would have thought proper. I was not overdressed, I saw; the male crowd was a mixed lot, some in ordinary suits, others in tuxedos. The ladies ran the gamut from floor-length gowns to short flapper skirts, headbands to tiaras.

I made my way through the crowd towards the bar, where I ordered myself a highball, heavy on the soda, and found a vantage point to study the crowd. I was appropriately dressed, I noted, and nobody was paying much attention to me. Nonetheless, I felt out of place, and began to study people and deduce what I could about them as a way to stay focused. Some of the guests were rather important people. I spotted a banker I knew from a case I’d solved with Lestrade, several men of law and medicine, business men of many trades, even a couple MPs. A socially mixed crowd, I thought, though there was an absence of low characters. Moriarty ran a nice establishment.

I caught sight of Irene dancing with a short, slight man in a tuxedo. I had imagined her wearing black, which always highlighted her ivory colouring and made her look devastating, but she wore lavender tonight, an unusual choice. Her dress was short and beaded, and I wondered if she had made it over from something she found in her grandmother’s trunk. On any other woman, it would have looked eccentric. On her, it looked daring and elegant.

Spotting me, she raised her chin and smiled.

I am not a social person, but I can manage when I’m on a case by fitting in with the behaviour of the crowd, playing a role. Had I found myself here just months ago, I might have met John Watson. Would he have even noticed me? There he would be, on the dance floor with Mary Morstan, his arm on her waist, holding her hand and gazing into her eyes. Would she have gazed back at those dark eyes, or would she be flirting with someone else over his shoulder while he led her across the floor? A woman who did not make commitments, dancing with a man who had given up on expecting any.

In every way, Watson had been cheated of the life he should have had, I thought. A doctor, he’d had to pay for his schooling by joining the army, and had the bad fortune to have his debt come due just as the country was entering a terrible war. Wounded, unable to practice surgery, he’d returned to London and attempted to live on whatever the government allowed him. His brother dead, his father unwilling to see him— no wonder he had latched onto Mary. Instead of a life of honour, a reward for his service, he’d had only this.

Since our last meeting, I had often sunk myself in a little fantasy, imagining our life together, had we met sooner. We would meet because he needed a place to live, and I needed someone to help with the rent. I was sure he did not share my inversion, but we might compatibly share rooms. Having him to look at every day, to talk to— these things could be enough, I thought.

There would be nights when he followed me out on cases, the two of us running towards danger with revolvers in our pockets, but most evenings would find us at Baker Street, sat in our chairs before a fire. He would be scratching away in a notebook, perhaps writing one of his stories. I would be engrossed in a book on something technical, and would periodically quote something to him, at which he would chuckle. I imagined other things, too—

“Mr Holmes,” a voice spoke next to me. “How’s the detecting business these days?”

I turned and there was Andrew Farrell, drink in hand, smiling at me. He wore the same suit I’d seen him wearing in court, and it occurred to me that he probably didn’t own another, being a starving artist of some sort. To be honest, I had no idea what he did for a living, where he lived, or anything about him. His personal appearance was bland, uninspiring of any curiosity.

“Irene invited me,” I said. “We’re friends from way back, almost to the Dark Ages, I should think.” This was not true; I’d met her a couple years earlier when a client asked me to recover a photograph that was in her possession. She was one of the most intelligent women— and the most devious— that I’d ever met.

He nodded. “She’s singing tonight.”

“Yes.” I could see no longevity for a conversation about Irene’s singing (which would, as always, be _smashing_ ), so I pushed into new territory. Being a somewhat reserved person, I used to feel awkward about asking personal questions, but when one is a private detective, it’s a necessary part of the job. I’ve learned: smile and look fascinated, and people will answer just about any question, no matter how cheeky. “Tell me about yourself, Mr Farrell. What is it that you do to earn your bread and cheese?”

“I write plays,” he said, taking a glass of bubbly from the bartender. “Not like Shakespeare, of course. I write about ordinary people, living real lives. All people eventually reach a point where they see that life makes no sense. That is my theme, the self-conscious examination of the absurdity of existence.” He smiled sheepishly. “Absurd, indeed, to think one could capture that authentically. Or that an attempt could even be authentic. That is the rock I push.”

Plays like this I had seen, though not voluntarily. Boring people, dreary scenarios, ugly and hopeless. Plays like that couldn’t possibly bring in a lot of bread or cheese, no matter how _authentic_ they were. Theater goers didn’t come to be reminded how colourless their lives were; they came for escape, for romance, tragedy, adventure. I supposed that theatre, like the visual art, had become so innovative that it had lost touch with all but a small clique of insiders. Still, I smiled and tried to look fascinated. “A writer, eh? I guessed you were artistic.”

He returned a thin smile. “I suppose you think so. I do not aim at art, however. Everyone’s an artist these days.” He nodded at the crowd of dancers. “I’d wager half of them do murals or write poetry or paint ceramic figurines and think themselves the voice of a generation.”

Like an idiot, I nodded. “I’m afraid I’m a bit conventional about such things. Art is something to fill an empty spot on the wall or gather dust on the mantlepiece, next to the humidor. I’m ashamed to admit I never think much about the creator, or what the piece is meant to say.”

“At least you’re honest,” he said. “You recognise convention in yourself and others. The so-called art produced these days is mostly conventional with some new twist. Then they go into raptures about how avant-garde it is, how they’re shattering tradition and so forth. Have you read _The Waste Land?_ ”

I had, but dreaded a discussion about what I considered a waste of ink and paper. I’m afraid poetry isn’t really my thing, though I had rather enjoyed all the allusions. _Pretentious_ , I thought.“Profound,” I said.

“Theatre is the only authentic art of the word,” he said. “Do you know what art is, Mr Holmes?”

“Well, I’ve always supposed that it’s _the spontaneous overflow of emotion recollected in tranquility_ ,” I said, remembering Wordsworth. “Something like that. I suppose that’s frightfully conventional thinking, though.”

“Art is the opposite of convention.” He smiled like the cat who’d got the cream. “It is an unproven hypothesis.”

The last chords of _Shimmy Like My Sister Kate_ sounded and the dancers began retreating noisily to tables. Farrell jerked his head and led me into a quieter corner. I offered him a cigarette.

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“Filthy habit,” I said, lighting mine. I inhaled deeply and let out a cloud of smoke. “An unproven hypothesis. Aren’t all hypotheses unproven? A supposition based on limited evidence. If you can prove it, it’s a theorem.”

He laughed. “I’m not a mathematician. What I mean is, art is not something you prove. It doesn’t require tranquility or reflection. It isn’t about perspective, it’s about proportion, integration. The mistake most artists make is thinking they must rebel against something. They don’t understand relativity. They’re always starting from something, rather than starting with themselves.”

“True,” I said reflectively. To be honest, I had no clue what we were even talking about, which made it quite easy to puff out piffle. “But if we start with ourselves, aren’t we using that very notion— ourselves— as a sort of convention? There’s the me that was toddling around yesterday, smoking cigarettes and reading newspapers and thinking about lunch. Today, I’m either carrying on smoking and reading and eating, or I’m consciously rebelling against that— smoking is beastly, the news is boring, and lunch is ghastly. My very rebellion is conventional, is it not?”

“Only if you are stuck on perspective.” He gave me a cynical smile. “The conventional perspective says those things are the point of life. They take those things as proof that they’re succeeding.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”

“Well,” I said, trying to think how I could guide the conversation into something useful. “For some, I suppose meaninglessness _is_ meaning. They simply don’t look for meaning. Instead, they simply _live._ They are authentically human. Take Mary Morstan. Not that I knew her, but from what I can tell, she was a genuine person. One of the few who knew what she was. That was her art, simply living, following her whims and… being true to who she was.”

This was perhaps the most meaningless observation I’d ever made, but Farrell nodded, looking morose.

“It’s true,” he said. “I can see why you’re good at what you do. You see through people.” He laughed softly. “You know, people mocked her writing. Pseudo-artistic people, that is. They didn’t see what she was _really_ doing. Her books were not just detective stories, they were a parody of our entire generation’s attempt to solve the mystery: what does it all mean?”

“You were close to her,” I said, feeling ground beneath my feet at last. “She confided in you.”

He nodded. “She trusted me.”

“She needed someone she could trust, after Watson left her.”

“That was beastly. He had no understanding of her, no idea what being an artist means. Leaving her was the most authentic thing he ever did. Well, I don’t blame him. He’s from _Northumberland_ , for God’s sake. His family was _Anglican_. And then the war.”

“Were you over there?” This was a question men our age always asked one another: _what did you do during the war?_

“No. Weak heart, flat feet. I stayed home.” He looked at me, suddenly curious. “How about you?”

“My brother is a rather impressive bureaucratic so-and-so. Embarrassing, really, being related to somebody that imposing. He got me a job working intelligence. I was never on the front, never in real danger.”

“But it sounds romantic,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Espionage, all those cloak-and-dagger escapades. I’m sure you made a difference, inasmuch as a difference could be made in such a pointless conflict.”

“It wasn’t a bit romantic. Mostly it was decoding communications.”

“War. The ultimate deconstruction of meaning.” He took a swallow of his drink, nodded towards the dance floor, where Irene and her partner were doing some sort of jazz dance that involved flailing limbs. The orchestra was playing _Yes, We Have No Bananas._ This was making everyone smile at the self-conscious absurdity of existence. The song ended, and everyone laughed and clapped.

“She’s another,” Farrell said.

Before I could decode what he meant by _another_ , Irene was heading towards our table, leading her small partner by the hand. As she approached, I realised that her companion was, in fact, a woman.

“This is Stephen,” she said, sliding into the seat next to me. “Stephen, this is Sherlock. You already know Andy.”

Stephen held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Her voice was high-pitched, but cadenced like a man’s, which momentarily confused me. I shook her hand and tried to smile as if she were a man, which was rather difficult, and made me aware that I actually had a different smile for women. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make a decision about pronouns, at least not out loud. In my own head, I went with _she/her._ She was a slight _person_ wearing a tailored suit, her hair short and slicked back. From her pocket she removed a monocle, which she set in her eye. “You look familiar,” she said. “Are you somebody?”

“Sherlock is a detective,” Irene said. “He’s investigating Mary’s murder, trying to prove that Watson didn’t do it.”

“Ah,” Stephen replied with a knowing nod. “They haven’t hanged him yet, then.”

“He got another trial, darling,” Irene explained. “I need a drink before I sing. Some tea, I think. With lemon.”

“I’ll get it,” Farrell said, suddenly the gentleman.

Irene gave him a plastic smile. “Thank you, love.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, she leaned towards me and said, “He so wants to be loved. Pathetic.”

“It’s the driving force of nature,” I replied. “Being loved, I mean, not being pathetic.”

“Everyone is pathetic,” Irene replied, smiling at her companion. “Even you, darling.”

“Even Sherlock Holmes,” Stephen said. “We all evoke pity.”

“I despise the pathetic,” Irene said. “Pathos is bourgeois.”

Feeling that the conversation was starting to pace in a circle and would soon collapse in an exhausted heap, I asked, “Where’s our host, Mr Moriarty?”

“Oh, he’ll make an appearance before the evening is over,” said Irene. “He’ll sidle up to a few folks, kiss a few hands, and look bored with everything. I’ll introduce you.”

Farrell returned with a bottle of champagne and a cup of tea, which he set it in front of Irene. Raising his own glass, he said, “Cheers, darling.”

“I’d like to dine at Frolics tonight,” Stephen announced, pouring champagne into her glass.

“It’s closed,” said Farrell. “They closed it down last month. Something about liens.”

“That Italian place, then. Something with violins.”

“Sherlock plays violin,” Irene said. “He played at the Bolshevist the other night.”

“Ah, then you _are_ an artist.“ Farrell raised his eyebrows. “I should have guessed.”

This was where I was supposed to pretend to be a mediocre talent, when I know for a fact that I am not mediocre. I tried to look authentic. “I have some musical talent. Being unguessable, however, is my greatest talent.”

“Thought you were a detective,” Stephen said, topping off her champagne.

“He is, darling. He’s an unguessable detective who plays the violin.” Irene stood, tugging at the hem of her dress, the little beads bouncing at her knees. “I’m on next. How do I look?”

“Ravishing,” Stephen said. “Like a picture.”

“As always,” I added. It was true. Irene could show up wearing bed linens and she would be the sexiest woman in the room. It was unnerving, that level of sex appeal.

She sang several songs, the most enthusiastically received being _Downhearted Blues._ For a woman, she had a low voice, slightly husky, that sounded both world-weary and eloquent. When I investigated her for a client, I learned that she had aimed at a career in opera, but the war had interrupted her studies on the continent. It was rumoured that she had engaged in espionage for the Germans, but after the war she was in London, singing in the trendiest clubs.

I have developed a tolerance for social events, but I was beginning to hit the wall. It wasn’t any particular thing, just the atmosphere as a whole. These people were filled with self-indulgent ennui, enamoured of every new thing that sparked their attention, and just as quickly bored. I thought of John Watson, an alien in this new landscape. He had given up his father’s religion, lost his idealism on the battlefield, and had seen through the frivolity of post-war London. I suddenly understood with great clarity why he had wanted to get away from all of this, and I knew with certainty that killing Mary Morstan was the last thing he would have done.

Irene had completed her performance and was taking her bows. An elegantly suited man ascended the stage and took her hand, kissing it. She took a final bow and allowed him to lead her from the stage. Stopping to greet people at tables along the way, they made their way towards us. Dark hair slicked back from a high forehead, eyes of liquid black, a weak chin, a bemused mouth. Moriarty, I presumed.

“Jim darling,” Irene said. “You know Andy and Stephen. This is Sherlock Holmes.”

His smile was practiced. “Jim Moriarty,” he said, holding out his hand..

There was something off-kilter about him, though I could not place it. His expression was that of a skilled actor, whose art comes across as brilliant and effortless until you examine it up close. His eyes, perhaps, gave him away. All brilliance is a bit mad, I suppose.

One look told me that he was why Irene had invited me tonight. Something about me had piqued his interest, and he wanted a look at me.

“You’re the detective.” He spoke with the subdued lilt of an Irishman who’s been in London for years. “I’ve followed your career.”

This did not sound like a compliment. I smiled, as it seemed the most appropriate response. “As I follow yours. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

He had not yet released my hand. There are social conventions about such things, and his refusal to let go was sending a message I understood. _Do not cross my patch,_ it said.

“You’re welcome here,” he said. “Any time.”

The conversation fell into a lull after Stephen and Farrell finished gushing over Irene’s performance. I was relieved that they were able to enjoy it without deconstructing it. I prefer classical to popular music, but have always thought that music was meant simply to be enjoyed.

Irene took my hand. “Dance with me,” she commanded.

The orchestra was playing a slower song, and I guided her easily into a foxtrot.

“You’re a wonderful dancer,” she said. “I thought you would be. I’ll bet your mother made you take lessons.”

“I have a rather old-fashioned mother,” I said. “She believes in manners and social conventions. A very white-gloves and pearls sort of lady.”

“I wonder that she hasn’t married you off to the daughter of some minor aristocrat. Mums like to see their fledglings leave the nest.”

“Mine was just happy that my fall from the nest wasn’t fatal. She understands me, I suppose, and is content that I can get myself dressed and leave the house each day without embarrassing myself.”

“She knows women aren’t your area.” She smiled up at me. “Pity.”

“You sang divinely,” I said. “Though we both know that’s not why you asked me here.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Inscrutable— in an obvious way. A man who doesn’t like to be guessed. Why did you want me to meet him?”

“You should be aware of him. Mary and John used to come here. She thought it was classy; he hated it. He always did look lovely in a tuxedo, though.”

I put aside the image of Watson looking lovely in evening wear. “Aware of him. You’re saying he has something to do with the case?”

“I know how your mind works, Sherlock, and it’s easy to see that this case moves you urgently. It’s not just a puzzle to you, is it? You don’t need to answer me— I know it’s more. And that _more_ will bias you, make you careless.”

“I’m not an idiot, Irene. My judgment remains intact, whatever you may think that you observe.”

“Then listen to me, dear idiot. Watch your step. He is dangerous, and he is already taking an interest in you.”

“Why would he be interested in me?”

“Don’t be dull, darling. I know your Mr Lestrade has told you all about him. And you’ve a reputation. You’re the man who solves things that baffle the police.”

“I know what he is. I understand the criminal mind well enough, and as criminals go, he is ordinary.”

She raised an eyebrow archly. “There are types of spiders that appear ordinary, small and brown, but whose bite can kill. They sit motionless in their web until something draws their attention. Ordinary does not mean innocuous.”

I nodded. The song was ending, so I guided her towards our table. “I understand. As women go, you are the opposite of ordinary, and I respect your insight. I will not draw his attention.” _Though I may need to cross his patch,_ I silently added.

I lingered for another hour, but did not press my agenda. In two hours, I had picked up on several things, but at this point, asking questions would have generated more meaningless conversation about unimportant things, and drawn attention to my investigation in ways that would not be helpful at all. Sipping my second highball and idly scanning the crowd, I was forming a list in my mind, things I needed to explore.

Irene and Mary were friends. If either had ever found a person that deserved that name, they were that for each other. I wondered what Mary’s relationship with Jim Moriarty had been. She’d had lovers; had he been one? That might require a private conversation with Irene.

I needed to talk to Lestrade about that man. The _Napoleon of Crime,_ he had once called him. My dealings with the police were limited to murders, Lestrade’s division; my other cases were private. I had not had occasion to encounter Moriarty before, but now I had questions— and not much time.

Seventeen days, I thought, until the new trial began.


	7. Seven

The following morning I awoke late, with the predicted headache banging at my temples. Mrs Hudson waited until she could hear me moving around, then brought up tea and toast.

“Unless you’d rather coffee,” she said, setting the tray down. “I always think tea is better when one has been imbibing. Less acidic.”

“Tea is fine,” I said, reaching for a piece of toast. “I didn’t imbibe much, but those people gave me a headache. Trying to have a sensible conversation with artistic types tries my patience to the limit. Ye gods, I feel old this morning. The apparatus creaks, and my head is clogged with existential nonsense.”

She nodded. “A cup of tea will set you to rights. Did you get any leads?”

“I’m not sure. Ideas are shaping in my brain, but I’m afraid I’m grabbing at puffs of smoke. There is simply too much data, and I don’t have time—“ I sighed deeply and looked at her. “Mrs Hudson, I’m afraid. This may be the simplest of cases, which will unravel with one dropped stitch. Or it may be a tangled skein. Either way, all I’ve got is seventeen days.”

“There, now. You mustn’t get discouraged. You’re the very one who can solve this.” She smiled. “You should stop and visit Dr Watson. I know you’ve got questions. And seeing you will do him good as well.”

“Questions are all I have, Mrs H. I haven’t any right to bother him when I haven’t uncovered anything solid yet. It seems unfair to keep popping in and telling him to keep his chin up, when I haven’t any reason to let him think—“I bit off the words that were on my tongue. John Watson had no reason to think I could save him from the gallows, and I had no right to encourage his hopes.

“You’ll think of something,” she replied. “You always do.”

“I’ll talk to Lestrade,” I decided. “Maybe he’s made some progress.”

“Nothing,” said Lestrade. “We’ve interviewed every resident of the surrounding buildings. No one saw anyone. Well, a few saw Watson, but they can’t be believed. Eyewitnesses are the least reliable form of evidence. If I had suggested that Watson was carrying a bloody ax when he came to visit Morstan, they all would have remembered it, clear as day.”

I smiled. “Or a bottle of morphine?”

“Witnesses are a bloody nuisance.”

“A false memory isn’t the same as lying,” I pointed out. “A lie can be proven or disproven, but imaginary bloody axes are damned hard to dispose of. Makes witnesses unbelievable if you do, and if you don’t, you’re stuck with unreliable evidence mucking up the investigation.”

He studied me for a moment. “Late night?”

“Ah, good deduction. I suppose the bags under my eyes give me away.”

“No, you look as fresh as a daisy. I stopped by to see you last evening, and your landlady told me you were out.” He grinned. “It’s obvious that you pay her well, Holmes. She wouldn’t tell me what you were up to, even though she knows me. How many times have I been to your flat?”

“Dozens, I suppose. Mrs Hudson is a gem at all times, a sphinx when it comes to witholding information. I’m not sure how I deserve her. I was at Moriarty’s last night, if you must know.”

“Pythagoras? I wonder that you got an invitation. The man is allergic to detectives.”

“Tell me about him, Lestrade. How does this Napoleon of crime rule his empire?”

He shook his head. “You joke, but James Moriarty is a genius. All signs point to his operation being the largest distributor of illegal drugs in Britain. But no one’s heard of the man! He’s always two steps away from discovery, vanishing in a cloud of flimsy evidence and missing witnesses as soon as Scotland Yard closes in.”

“Not Napoleon, then. Houdini, perhaps. So, drugs. Cocaine, I assume.”

“Right, but he keeps the club clean. Every time we’ve raided him, there’s nothing there. We don’t know where he transacts his illegal business.”

One of Lestrade’s team stuck his head in the door. “We’ve just had a call from the book agents, Wolter and McFee. There was a break-in last night.”

Mr McFee was waiting when we arrived. He was leaning on a broom, surveying the mess, but had the good sense not to have touched anything.

“They broke the window in my office, climbed through, and then wandered about, opening cabinets and throwing papers on the floor.”

Lestrade nodded. “What did they take?”.

He scratched his head. “That’s just it. The safe was cracked, but nothing taken. I checked the cabinet where I keep the galleys, and though it’s been thoroughly overturned, I can’t see anything missing.”

Lestrade and I looked around the office at the mess of paper. “How can you tell?” I asked.

“I had half a dozen manuscripts in various states of readiness,” he replied. “The boxes are on the floor, have been opened and in some cases dumped out, but they look complete.”

“You’re sure about missing pages?” Lestrade shook his head at the chaos. “What about your cash box?”

He smirked. “Gentlemen, people don’t break into a literary agent’s office for money. And they aren’t looking for page 239 of whatever book they’ve fixated on. These burglars are spies.”

“Spies?” I imagined Russians, hiding secret messages in books—

“Miss Morstan’s next book is a hot commodity right now,” he explained. “Anyone who can scoop the plot, let alone distribute an unauthorised version, could make a lot of money.”

“The galleys are still here, then?”

“No.” He smiled. “That’s just it. She was working on it, but hadn’t shared it with me. Not a page. It was a big secret.”

“Was that typical for her?” Lestrade asked. “Was she always secretive?”

“Not at all. She would usually begin sharing a book with me as soon as it was well underway.”

“Well,” I said. “I can understand why an author might be secretive about the plot of her latest mystery novel. What bombshell do you suppose this one contained?”

McFee shrugged. “I was awfully afraid she was going to kill off Arthur, seeing as she and Watson were on the outs. That would certainly have been controversial. We would have had mobs marching in the streets, wearing black arm bands and insisting that someone be tried for murder.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” Lestrade said. “Killing a fictional character would be considered murder?”

“To fans, yes. And it would be death to Diana Archer as well.”

“Did she have any other detective series that she was writing?” I asked. “Any penniless painters or playwrights with extraordinary observational skills? Maybe a nosy nobleman or a clever clergyman?”

“No, she was very happy writing her flapper detective. Diana was her alter-ego, you might say.”

“Hm. Were I to write, my hero’s trade would be chemistry,” I mused. “Odd fellow, no manners, a bit bohemian. Keeps his cigars in the coal scuttle, his correspondence fixed to the mantel with a dagger, and sometimes doesn’t talk for days. Plays the violin… Well. You said you had outlines for future books.”

“Nothing definite in terms of Arthur and Diana. Just plot ideas, new scenarios. Interesting ways to kill a person. Unusual motives.”

“Means, motive, opportunity. Were any of those _means_ going to be drug overdoses?”

“Not as I recall. Let’s see… she’d done poison, drowning, strangulation—“

“Allergy,” I added. “I read _Bee’s Knees_.”

“Yes. That was clever. As I said, I don’t know what method her next book might have used. I haven’t read a word of it.”

“Someone broke in here, expecting to find it,” I said. “What about her flat? Could it have been there?”

“That seems likely,” McFee said.

Lestrade smiled grimly. “If so, it disappeared the night she died. If that was the murderer’s motive, it would have been gone by the time we’d roped off the crime scene.”

“What about Watson’s flat?” McFee asked.

“We did search for evidence there,” Lestrade said. “But we weren’t looking for a manuscript at that time.”

“We’ll check it out, then. But is that a credible motive?” I was talking more to myself than Lestrade. “I can’t see anyone killing her to scoop the plot. Unless the plot contained information someone wanted concealed.” I turned to Mr McFee. “Do you have any of her notes I could see? And have you lined up a ghost-writer?”

“I don’t have any notes on that one,” he said. “A bit awkward to hire a ghost-writer now, though. Too soon, and with things still up in the air, well, if you want to know what she had planned, Watson would be the best person to ask. She never wrote anything without getting his opinion.”

“Her muse,” I said.

McFee appeared to think of something. “I do know the title she was considering. _The Affair of the Shady Sheikh._ ”

“Somewhat suggestive. A sheikh might be an Arab prince, or an attractive, wealthy man. Did she model many of her characters on real people?”

“Other than Arthur, no. More like composites.”

“Well, I suppose inspiration must come from somewhere,” I said. “Someone broke in here looking for something specific, didn’t make much effort to make it look like a common burglary. I wonder.”

Lestrade and I stopped at Watson’s building. The landlord had boxed up his possessions and moved them into the basement. “I needed somebody to pay rent on these rooms,” he said. “But you can look through the boxes.”

There were three medium-sized boxes, which only took us minutes to go through, finding nothing like a manuscript.

Looking at his few items of clothing and small stack of books, I wondered how many boxes it would take me to pack up my life. In the time I’d lived at Baker Street, my possessions seemed to have expanded to fill the space. John Watson’s life could be summed up in three boxes. “Have you called anyone to claim these?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I was waiting…” The pause was ominous. “Well, he may not be needing them.”

I went directly to the prison and asked to see Watson, despising my weakness. I had nothing much to share with him, but just needed to see him.

“I have only a few questions,” I said when they’d brought him into the room.

“Have you talked to Charles Morstan?” he asked. “I’ve been thinking about that since we last spoke. Obviously, I don’t like the man. I hadn’t thought him capable of murder, but one thing I have learned in the army is that almost any of us are capable of killing another person, given the right circumstances.”

“That is a truth that I must live by, Doctor, as a solver of murders. You can’t rule people out because they’re amiable, nor should you suspect a man just because he’s repellent. I cannot let my judgment be biased by personal qualities.”

He nodded. “And yet, you have judged me innocent, without having any real proof.”

I could not deny this. Nor could I explain my conviction, which seemed founded on little more than sentiment. “There must also be some room for intuition. I trust that mine has been honed by some experience.”

He smiled. “And I trust you to discover the truth.”

I tried to imagine him as the most cunning of murderers, myself duped by his lovely smile. My feelings towards him might already have compromised my reason, I knew. But my conviction remained.

“The truth will set us free, Watson.” Hoping my consternation was not obvious, I cleared my throat. “I haven’t yet spoken with Charles Morstan, but I shall certainly drop in on him. The question is, what might have made his sister more of a liability to him? _Money motivates much malicious mischief_ , as they say.”

“Indeed. And Charles is a person motivated by money, as I see it. I can’t quite think of him as a murderer, though. Well, you’ll figure it out, I’m sure. But you said you had some questions for me.”

“Yes. I’ve just come from Miss Morstan’s agent. His offices were broken into last night, but nothing was taken. What do you make of that?”

His eyes widened. “I don’t claim to understand the book business, Mr Holmes. Apparently, the plots of serial books are a closely guarded secret. I have been informed that espionage is involved. Since a number of McFee’s clients write serials, mysteries mainly, I suppose someone was sent in as a spy.”

“Do you know what her next book was about?”

He laughed. “Murder. They’re all about murder.”

“Tell me about her work habits.”

“She had tremendous focus at times, and then she would write for hours without breaking for food or drink. Many artists have this pattern, I have observed. Mary affected it to some degree, I think, because she believed that was how art was created, and she wanted to be taken seriously as a writer.”

“Did she always have you read them before submitting them to her agent?”

He nodded. “Yes, it was part of her superstitious ritual. I don’t think she particularly respected my opinion, but it was something she always did. Quite often my remarks would send her into a pique and she would remind me that I’m an idiot. Later, she would make the changes, claiming they were her idea.”

“You’d seen her manuscript of the newest book?”

“No, I hadn’t. As far as I knew, it was all still in her head. She hadn’t written a word when I moved out.”

“Did she keep notes?”

“Not really. She had a quick mind, and usually once she had an idea, she’d begin typing it up right away. Not a plotter, she made it up as she went along. I tried to convince her to at least write an outline, but she said _that might be how you’d plod through a story, but I work purely by inspiration._ ”

“You’re a writer yourself, I hear.”

He shrugged. “I’ve thought about it. Having lived with a writer, you know, one gets the idea that one could do that too. I haven’t written anything, though.”

“Well, if you ever do, I will require an autographed copy. But she hadn’t shared any ideas with you about her next book?”

“None. As I said, she hadn’t started anything new when I left.”

“You said she had a deadline. That night, when you went to see her, she was upset because she couldn’t write, you said.”

“That was just my impression. She’d told me she hadn’t written a word. I assumed she had a deadline, but didn’t ask, thinking it better not to involve myself in the process. I don’t know what she was writing. Maybe nothing. It may have been an excuse to get me to come over. You might ask Andy. He was familiar with her writing.”

“Did he ever edit things for her, as you did?”

“Never. She didn’t like his style of writing. We went to one of his plays once, and all she did afterwards was tear it up and make fun of him. She let me edit because I’m not literary. I don’t look for meaning in a story; it’s all just entertainment. That’s who her audience is, not the literary set. But Andy read all her books. He admired their _what-do-you-call-it._ I don’t know, their lack of pretension. Perhaps he was trying to figure out the secret of her success. It was hard for him, I think, being a very serious writer, to see somebody like Mary tossing off best-sellers with nary a thought about theme or voice or anything literary. I think he was cosying up to her more after I left, so maybe she’d started sharing with him.”

“I’ll ask him. How long did it take her to write a story once she started putting in on paper?”

“Not long at all. As little as a week, sometimes. I’ve seen her work for fourteen, even sixteen hours at a stretch, pass out for a few hours, and then resume writing. It’s the plotting that takes time, not the writing per se, and because she plotted as she went along, it required a lot of revision. Her method, if you could call it that, was to zig-zag through to the end, ripping and revising. Then she’d have me read it, and I’d make margin notes. We’d talk about any plot inconsistencies and she’d fix them, marking up the manuscript with corrections. Finally, she’d have a woman type it up for Mr McFee.”

“Mr McFee seems to think that she’d started working on it. He said it was to be entitled _The Affair of the Shaky Sheikh._ ”

“No idea. Her ideas were always clever, but a bit silly, to be honest. Far-fetched. Apparently, that’s what readers want. A mystery they can’t guess, characters who keep them reading. She was very good at that.”

“I know authors always make disclaimers, _This is a work of fiction,_ etc _… products of the author's imagination_ and so forth. I’m not at all sure it’s common for people to sue authors for stealing their identity, and no idea whether it’s a sufficient motive for murder, but I’m wondering if she might defame somebody in one of her stories, make a character modeled after a real person, have that character be the murderer. Something like that.”

He smiled. “I think it’s more common for authors to sue other authors for stealing their _plots_.”

“Would she do that?”

“I don’t believe so. She didn’t even like showing up in the same dress as another woman. I can’t imagine her using another author’s plot.”

“Did she use real people or events in her stories?”

“She was inspired by real crime and criminals, but I’ve never known her to steal an identity.” He smiled. “Other than mine, of course.”

I returned his smile. “I’m beginning to think that the real John Watson is not much like Arthur Boyd.”

He shook his head. “Perhaps he is rather like me. He’s a bit of a fool, and so am I. She was always telling me what a brilliant idiot I was, saying things that were so far off the mark that they actually pointed her in the opposite, and ultimately correct direction.”

“Rather insulting, that.”

“I’m no genius, Mr Holmes.”

“You’re clearly no idiot, either. Why did you stay with her so long, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“How can I mind? My life has to be an open book now, if I’m to see the rest of it. Why did I stay, you ask? Well, she was very beautiful. And living with her tended to make me forget how boring my own life was. When I came back from France, I had nowhere to go, and there she was, inviting me to parties and introducing me to people. She kept saying she needed me. I suppose I’m rather susceptible to needy people. Caregiver instinct, you’d probably call it.”

“I’d call it compassion. A rather uncommon quality these days. You say you’re no genius, but I find you a rare person.”

Turning slightly pink, he laughed quietly. “I’m a very ordinary person, Mr Holmes.”

“You underestimate yourself, Doctor.” I cleared my throat. “Obviously she used you as inspiration in may ways. I’ve read two of the books so far, and I can see why readers love Arthur Boyd. His relationship with Diana is the best part of the story; their conversations are her best writing, in my opinion. Did you ever see yourself quoted?”

“She used things we talked about, sometimes paraphrased things I’d said. I wouldn’t call myself an inspiration. She saw me as ordinary, and when she needed to show something ordinary, I was her touchstone. She used to say things like, _I can’t know what a character is going to say until I begin talking to him._ So, she’d talk to me.”

“Did the two of you ever go to Moriarty’s? I mean his club, Pythagoras.”

“A few times. Not often.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Moriarty?” His lip curled in distaste. “Self-important. And a little unstable, I think. Not the noisy kind of lunatic. The quiet kind. Scarier.”

“Did Mary like him?”

“It’s a mistake to think it matters whether people like Moriarty or hate him. He tolerates you, or he doesn’t. He tolerated Mary, I think. I’m not sure he even noticed me.”

I nodded. “It’s not always a good thing to be noticed.”

“Sometimes, it’s a blessing to be inconspicuous.” He gave me a rueful smile.

“You should have been a detective,” I replied. “You can’t imagine how difficult it is to walk around looking for clues with this ridiculous face.”

“Not ridiculous. It’s a very nice face.” He smiled and looked down. “I enjoy your visits. It makes me feel… hopeful. I’m just glad someone cares. When they said there would be another trial, and I would have to go through it all again, well… Souls don’t usually come up from Limbo, do they?”

“I’m not a religious man, Doctor, but I am committed getting you out of here.”

“I read your article,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“And?”

“And I believe you are the person who can find out what really happened that night.”

When they took him out of the room, it seemed to me that he was holding his head a bit higher. I had accomplished very little, but this made me happy.

I caught a cab to Simpson’s. Mycroft and I had a standing appointment to have lunch there every Wednesday. As painful as it was to spend an hour being lectured by him, I made an effort to be docile during these conversations, if only so that he would continue contributing to my rent.

“Mummy is anxious to see you,” he said. “You might take a couple days and go home.”

“You know I can’t do that.” It irritated me that he still saw my career as a _little hobby_ which kept me from boredom (and other things). “I’ve got the Watson investigation.”

“Oh, are you still on that?”

“You know I am, Mycroft.” I accepted the leek soup that was set before me, picked up my spoon and prepared to get through the meal as quickly as possible. Leeks are detestable, but under the circumstances, I could have eaten a plate of sheep’s brains if it meant keeping John Watson alive.

We sipped our soup in silence for a few minutes. The waiter filled our wine glasses with something from a bottle bearing several pretentious little seals and crests.

Mycroft touched his mouth with his napkin. “Brother, you must not be disappointed when it turns out badly.”

“Mustn’t I?”

He sighed. “Sherlock, you are letting sentiment get in the way of reason. Even if the man is not guilty—“

“ _Even if_? Mycroft, there is reasonable doubt—“

“ _Even if_ he is not guilty,” Mycroft continued, “you must not descend into Moriarty’s underworld. If your doctor was foolish enough to get involved with that world, he should not be surprised to find himself framed for murder.”

I was at the point of throwing my napkin down and storming out. “No one deserves—“

“I mean, brother mine, that he is a naive man, and you are seriously underestimating Moriarty. Do not be a fool, Sherlock. You cannot take him down.”

“My intent is not to take down the so-called Napoleon of crime. It is merely to prove Watson’s innocence. He associated with people who frequented the Pythagoras. That is the only reason I was there last night.”

“Did you meet the man?”

“Briefly.” I remembered those empty eyes, that lingering handshake, and gave an involuntary shudder.

“You are a detective, brother. Moriarty did not gain his empire by being a fool. He knows what you are and will not hesitate to squash you, as he has Watson.”

“Why would he care about squashing John Watson?”

“I don’t know, but if he considered him a threat, even a minor one, he would not spend one second regretting his death.”

“He might have just had him shot, if that was the case.”

“The mathematician does not like his body count rising too high. Nor does he dirty his own hands with such sordid matters. Why create trails of evidence that will eventually require him to kill more people? Better to let the justice system do it for him.”

“If Watson did something that threatened Moriarty, I am going to find out what it was.” I took a swallow of the wine which, although pretentious, was quite good.

Mycroft shook his head but said nothing.

The waiter removed our soup bowls and set salads before us. _Beets_. Mycroft had taken especial care to see that my least favourite foods were served. I picked up my fork, prepared to poke at it until someone offered to take it away.

“What is your case?” Mycroft asked. “You are focusing on the events, I assume.”

“He left at half ten. People were in and out of the building at all hours, according to the housekeeper. Miss Pugh evidently slept through it all, but someone must have come up to see the Morstan after Watson left. We’re interviewing neighbours, checking cab records—“

“That fellow Farrell. What about him? He was a key witness for the defence.”

“He was in Epping.”

Mycroft shrugged. “An hour away, give or take. He knew them both, was an intimate friend. I wonder how _intimate_ he was.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I didn’t suggest it, the prosecutor did.”

“And you think it could have bearing on the murder?”

We paused our conversation as large joints of roast mutton, accompanied by turnip mash, were placed before us. I’d finally had enough. “Bring me some fish,” I said to the waiter. “Take this monstrosity away.”

“Very good, sir,” he murmured.

I caught a sly smile briefly lighten Mycroft’s features. “Such a delicate system you have, brother.”

“Mutton is ghastly,” I said. “As are leeks, beets, and turnips. We were talking about Mr Farrell, I believe.”

“It is not the job of the defense to discover who might have done the murder,” he said, “but merely to show that someone possibly could have done it. Motive, means, and opportunity.”

“You think Farrell knows something?”

“It can’t hurt to ask. I am surprised you haven’t questioned him.”

“I spoke with him last night, at the Pythagoras. He talked a lot of rot about art and relativity and authenticity. The same cant all of that crowd employ. He thinks the Morstan was an artist because she didn’t care about art. Apparently, people who care about being good at what they do are dilettantes, and only the careless, child-like dabbler can create something meaningful. Naturally, assigning comprehensible meaning to it ruins everything—“

“It’s an idiotic fashion that will soon pass. I prefer to ignore it. Art will survive such artists. What about Farrell? What’s his medium?”

“He’s a playwright. Not a hack like Shakespeare, he claims. Important and meaningless things are his subject, because significance is insignificant and to be avoided at all costs. He is Sisyphus, pushing his authentic rock up an imaginary hill.”

“How did he feel about Watson? Is there any basis for the prosecutor’s suggestion?”

“The prosecutor no doubt wanted to suggest that Farrell was covering for Watson. Making a salacious innuendo was a good way to get everyone to take notice.”

“I wonder.” His lips curved into a suggestion of a smirk.

“Doctor Watson is not of that _persuasion._ ”

“Is Farrell? Unrequited love, perhaps? He might play the sympathetic ear to the lady, while secretly hoping to bed the gentleman.”

I was annoyed that this had not occurred to me. “You think he’s in love with Watson, maybe helped the breakup along for his own ends? You can’t seriously think he would murder her, though.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded to the waiter to remove our plates. He ordered us a sticky toffee pudding and some coffee. I declined the pudding, accepted the coffee. When the table was cleared, he said, “You are in love with Doctor Watson.”

My brother has always seen the very things I wish to conceal. “What would you know about love?”

“More than you suppose. I also know my younger brother quite well. And I remind you that sentiment does not make anyone think more clearly, that if you wish to save a very good man, one whom you believe innocent, you need to clear your mind of all fantasies so that you can see the facts. People are working very hard, Sherlock, to make sure you fail. Get your brain out of your trousers. Save John Watson.”


	8. Eight

I tried calling Morstan & Sons without success. Each time the phone was answered by an increasingly flustered woman who said _Mr Morstan asked not to be disturbed._ She could predict no time when a disruption might be possible. I promised to call back. After my second attempt, I decided I would just drop in and see what was keeping Mr Morstan so busy.

A nervous-looking woman glanced up from a typewriter when I entered the office on Wells Street where the firm was managed. Clearly, she was the _do not disturb_ woman on the phone. My entrance seemed to rattle her. I gave her what I hoped was a harmless smile.

“Is Mr Morstan available?”

“I— he’s asked not to be disturbed,” she stammered, glancing back at the door behind her.

“I assume he’s in. Perhaps you could see if he’s busy? It’s rather important, and I promise I won’t take much of his valuable time.”

Clearly, I had presented her with two horns of a dilemma. Either she had to make up something to get rid of the awkward visitor who wanted to talk to the man behind the door, or she had to go knock on that door, behind which waited either Scylla or Charybdis. By now, I was curious to see the monster.

“Do you have an…” her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “An appointment?”

“I do,” I lied. “P’raps I’m early. Or have the day wrong. If you could just—“

The door flew open before I could make up more lies, or the receptionist could decide what to do about me, and a stout fellow burst through it, barking, “Molly! What have you done?”

This question might have been answered in any of several ways ( _I’ve made tea, I’ve typed a letter, I’ve powdered my nose, I’ve taken this job and wish I hadn’t_ …), but most of those answers would not have been the right one.

Luckily the stout man was holding a clue in his hand, a piece of paper which he rattled in her face as he shouted, “These figures are all wrong!” 

Terrified, she began to apologise. “I’m sorry, Mr Morstan. Miss Hawkins did the numbers. I thought—“

I pitied the absent Miss Hawkins, but need not have, for Molly was clearly going to continue to be the object of his anger.

“ _Miss Hawkins_ is no longer with us, Miss Hooper, as you well know. You are responsible for checking all correspondence that goes out with my signature on it— including the _numbers_!”

I wondered what had happened to Miss Hawkins, whose name was now uttered like profanity. I hoped she had not died of embarrassment, as it appeared Miss Hooper was now about to do.

“My apologies and all that,” I began. “I’m afraid I’ve been distracting Miss Hooper—“

“And who the hell are you?” he thundered. His hair was slicked back like a seal, and he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. The suit he wore was expensive, but badly tailored.

“Sherlock Holmes.” I gave him my best smile, which was a special blend of _nice to meet you_ and _stop being such an ill-mannered ignoramus._

“The detective,” he said, softening his tone a bit. “What do you want?”

“I’m investigating the circumstances of your sister’s… er… unfortunate demise. It seems the evidence wasn’t sufficient to—“

“You’re trying to get the noose off that gigolo Watson.”

“I am working with his solicitors, yes. I don’t believe an innocent man should go to the gallows.”

“Innocent? The man is a leech.”

“But not a murderer,” I countered. “And it’s not as if he’s profiting from her death.”

“May I offer you some tea?” Molly said, visibly trembling.

“That would be lovely.” I turned my amiability towards Charles Morstan, who might have wanted some tea as well, but who was now imitating a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing. “I have a few questions for you, Mr Morstan.”

The look he gave me told me that we were not going to sit down with a nice cup of tea and tearfully reminisce about the last time he saw his sister. The look he gave Molly made tears begin to flow down her cheeks.

“I have nothing to say,” he said abruptly. “My sister died as she lived. I did not approve of her choices and refuse to discuss them with you.”

“I understand she died without a will, which means that you, as her nearest of kin, will be the beneficiary of her writing income. Did you disapprove of her books as well?”

“Get out,” he growled. “Leave me alone.” With these words, he returned to his office and slammed the door.

“I’m sorry.” Molly’s voice was tremulous, barely above a whisper. “He’s in such a temper these days.”

“Not your fault,” I replied quietly. “What happened to Miss Hawkins? Nothing tragic, I hope?”

She smiled. “Not tragic. She got married. She’s now Mrs Teague.”

“Ah, well. That’s what employers should expect when they hire lovely young ladies.”

She blushed. “I think he hired me because I have no suitors. Nor am likely to have any.”

“Is he blind? Well, men as a rule tend to overlook true beauty.” Women, of course, are not my area, but she was not bad-looking, and probably not a terrible secretary. The desk of the late Miss Hawkins was haphazardly piled with ledger books and papers, but Molly’s desk was very neat, with orderly stacks of incoming and outgoing correspondence. I spied a book off to the side: _The Mystery of the Jilted Jane._ “I’m sure he has no idea what a lovely woman you are.”

Her blush deepened. “He’s been trying to replace Janine— that’s Mrs Teague—, but I’m afraid he hasn’t made much of an effort to be nice to those who apply. He scares away the best candidates.”

“No worries. I happen to know someone who would be perfect for the job and is currently available. Works for a typing bureau and has bookkeeping experience. You’ll keep this under your charming chapeau, won’t you? Your boss seems to have taken a dislike to me and I wouldn’t want him to pass up my friend simply because I was the one who told her about the opening.”

“If your friend is pretty, he won’t hire her,” she said. “If she’s competent, he might, but she won’t last long. If I’d had another offer, I wouldn’t be here, either.”

“My friend is a formidable woman.” I nodded at the book. “I haven’t read that one yet. Is it any good?”

She smiled then, a genuine smile. “Oh, yes! I’ve read them all. It’s even better than _Bee’s Knees_. I’ve read it twice already. I was looking forward to the next one. Only… I guess there’s not going to be any more Diana Archer stories, now that…” She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“You knew Miss Morstan, I presume.”

Her face fell a bit. “She never remembered my name. We didn’t speak much.”

“Ah, then she didn’t know she had a fan right here, under her brother’s nose?”

She looked worried for a moment, then tucked the book into her bag. “I don’t think Mr Morstan looks at what I read on my break, as long as I’m getting his typing done.”

“You’ve met Dr Watson?”

Her eyes lit up. “He’s a lovely man. He was only here twice, but _he_ remembered my name. I hope… I know who you are, Mr Holmes. You’re trying to help, aren’t you?”

I lowered my voice. “Indeed. I’m afraid that’s why your boss would rather not talk to me.”

“You think he—? Oh, no. He wouldn’t.” She shook her head vehemently.

“He said he was at home that night; his wife confirmed it. But everyone finds an alibi when somebody’s been murdered. He might have arranged it.”

Suddenly the door banged open again. “You’re still here,” Morstan growled. “I know what you’re up to, and I won’t stand for it.”

“Mr Morstan, I can assure you—“

“Stop flirting with my secretary!” He grabbed his coat off the rack and shoved an arm into it. He shook his free fist at Molly. “No matrimony! Do you hear me? The first I hear you’re walking out with this fellow, I’ll fire you!” He worked his free arm into the other sleeve. “I’m out for today.”

As the door banged behind him, I looked at Molly Hooper. “I’ll send my friend round this afternoon, if that’s convenient? She’ll bring credentials with her.”

Mrs Hudson is indeed formidable. I wasted no time in sharing my plan with her, and she agreed at once. I had already spoken to a former client, Miss Pinter, who ran a typing bureau. With her assistance, Mrs Hudson could be sent in as a temporary employee with the possibility of being kept on if her skills were good enough.

“Typing and shorthand are things one never forgets,” Mrs Hudson said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out anything you want to know.”

“I am confident that you will, Mrs H, and I thank you for doing this.”

“No trouble at all. As you know, my Jack was quite a clever businessman. It’s a shame he wasn’t more honest.”

“A shame for him, but not for us. If he’d been honest, you would not be so well-versed in business law. Any eyes you can put on Morstan’s books will be important to understanding the money issue. He clearly does not trust Miss Hooper with the numbers. Be maternal with her; she’s terrified of him.”

“Poor dear. Who keeps his books, then?”

“Apparently Mrs Teague, nee Hawkins, had that job. They’re expecting you to have experience in that area. Be meticulous, but let him know you’ll wink at a few accounting irregularities. If he trusts you, I don’t think he’ll look over your shoulder much. He obviously finds it easier to yell and blame than to actually supervise his employees. I noted several signs of lax housekeeping while I was there— unfiled correspondence, carelessly stacked piles of statements, out-of-order annual reports on the shelves. Molly’s desk is neat, but she’s mainly a typist, not a bookkeeper. Morstan’s father ran the company until his death a few years ago. My guess is that Charles doesn’t really have the aptitude for business, but likes money.”

She nodded. “Morstan & Sons, you said. Is there another son?”

“The company has been around for some fifty years, so the original Morstan might be the grandfather. Another area to research— what other family members are involved in operations?”

“What do they make?”

“Tinned foods, as I recall. I imagine they made quite a bundle during the war. That’s something to look at too, how they’ve managed their assets, which might include a canning factory or two.”

“And what about you?” she asked.

“I need to check on the break-in at the agents, but Lestrade is working on that. I might talk to Irene, find out more about Moriarty, see what his relationship with Mary was. And then there’s Farrell. To be honest, I dread another conversation about art, but I suppose it must be done. He was possibly jealous of the Morstan, either because she sold books, or because he coveted Watson. He was visiting his mother the night it happened, and I believe that his alibi was checked. Still, it’s worth rechecking.”

“What about Mr Watson? The doctor’s father, I mean.”

“I hadn’t thought much about him. Not sure what he could tell us. He’s more or less disowned his son.”

“It’s been a few years,” she said. “He may have softened a bit.”

“I doubt he can shed much light on recent events,” I said absently. “Not sure it’s worth a train ride to Northumberland, just to have the door slammed in my face. There are other things I should be doing.”

“You can take a night train up, see him in the morning, be back by tomorrow afternoon.”

I turned and really looked at her. “You want me to go. Why?”

“If he is convicted,” she began, “—which you are doing your best to prevent, Sherlock, I know. No one can predict the outcome of another trial, another jury—“

“Once I find the killer, there won’t be another trial.”

“I know, love, but if he is convicted this time, if he dies— God forbid— the old man will need to know that someone did his best to stop it. I’m sure he’ll talk to you. John will never stop being his son. It may comfort him to know that someone believed in his son’s innocence.”

I nodded. “I understand. It’s just that I’m overwhelmed with things to do now. All of these leads are likely to be time-consuming.”

She took my hand in hers, patting it gently. “Mr Lestrade is on the job, and so am I, or will be by tomorrow. The train ride will give you time to think. And maybe Mr Watson will give you a clue. You always see things nobody else does, dear. I think it will be a good use of your time, instead of pacing around your sitting room, smoking like a chimney.”

I sighed in resignation. “You know me well, Mrs H. I’ll pack now.”

She smiled. “I’ve put your valise on the bed. Clean undergarments and socks are laid out.”

I arrived in Hexham late that night, having spent the evening on the train. Discouraged and worn out with thinking about the case, I felt like I was wasting a day. As I lay in the unfamiliar bed, I attempted to organise my thoughts. Far from the city, a more complete darkness lay on the town of Hexham than London ever sees. I felt as if a darkness lay on my mind as well.

_Who is John Watson?_

Born into a family without money, first to attend university, he joined the army to pay for medical school. That was John Watson’s life up until the Great War.

He told me that his father, a strictly religious man, had virtually disowned him because of his lifestyle. _I’ve broken too many commandment_ s were his words to me. He’d talked about the drugs, but it isn’t a sin to take something for pain, and he’d overcome his addiction. Drinking isn’t illegal, but some religious types frown on it. That might have rankled, but in the minds of the pious, sex is the root of all evil. Living with a woman without the benefit of matrimony would have been a heavier transgression than all of the others, and was no doubt the origin of their estrangement.

His brother was apparently the favoured son, but died in the war. Every family has its quarrels, but will hold together through trouble if there is a peacemaker. The older brother might have played that role. His death must have broken them both.

There were contradictions here. His father might have thought him beyond redemption, but Watson was considered a ‘Boy Scout’ by the crowd he ran with. He was Mary Morstan’s touchstone for what normal people are like, but he wasn’t ordinary at all. He didn’t measure himself by other people’s standards, whether his father’s or those of the bohemian community he lived in. He simply wanted to be a better person. In my experience, people are more apt to follow the crowd that set out on their own. John Watson followed his own path.

An unassuming man, not overwhelmed by the unfairness of life, not afraid of dying, not blaming anyone but himself for the life he’d ended up with.

It was bad luck that he’d met Mary Morstan. He hadn’t blamed her for anything, but I did. Though I hadn’t met her, I knew exactly what kind of person she was. She had used him. Even in death, she pursued him. She might be, quite literally, the death of him.

I fell asleep thinking of John lying in his prison cell, counting the days, knowing he might only have weeks left. I did not dream. When I woke up, it was still early, and I decided to get on with my errand. 

The postmaster would obviously know where everyone lived, so I started my quest at that office.

“Watson,” I said. “Hamish Watson. Can you tell me where he lives?”

“You mean the vicar.” The look he gave me was wary. From my speech, he had pegged me as an outsider. “What would you be wanting with our vicar?”

“We have an acquaintance in common. Since I’m in the area, I thought I’d drop in, bring greetings.”

He pointed me towards the vicarage, just _a wee stretch of the legs_ from where I stood, and I set out. On the way, I pondered. John said his father was a _strict Anglican._ While a vicar certainly would fit that description, I wondered why he didn’t simply say his father was an Anglican clergyman. Several possibilities occurred to me, none of them excluding the likelihood that the Reverend Watson would throw me out on my ear when he knew why I’d come.

The house where John Watson grew up was a tidy little cottage just a stone’s throw from the church, an ancient stone edifice built by tenth-century monks. The cottage was much newer and well-tended, I thought, not one of those rambly, drafty, old houses like the vicarages I remembered. A home whose residents had sat in the kitchen on many a morning like this, having their breakfast together. I imagined the Watson boys, always a bit of a terror, reassuring their dad that they’d done all their lessons and wouldn’t be playing any pranks on the school master— not after the incident with the dead mouse. I imagined them playing rugby and climbing trees and reluctantly but obediently doing their chores.

Well, this was pure fancy. I didn’t really know anything about John Watson, other than that he’d had an older brother, and he’d grown up here, in this house, this village. Inasmuch as one reveals one’s upbringing in the way one lives, whether by returning to the lessons once learned, or by rebelling against them, John Watson was a product of this place.

The door was opened by a young woman who said she was the housekeeper. I explained my errand, briefly. She went to announce me, and then invited me into a cozy sitting room where a fire blazed in the hearth.

“Mr Holmes,” the vicar said, rising from his chair.

There was much of the son in the father— fair, compact, with an open smile and guileless eyes. What surprised me was his age. John Watson was thirty-three, and I had expected his father to be in his sixties. This man looked more like a grandfather, maybe as old as eighty.

He extended his hand and begged me to be seated.

“I’m terribly sorry to trouble you,” I began, uncertain how to explain what had brought me here.

“You’re from London,” he said, “you’ve come about my Johnny, about the trial.”

“Yes, I have. I’m helping with the investigation, you see. I’m sure it’s been a distressing time for you, with the newspapers and all, and I’ve made it my task to see if I can’t put things right. The evidence, you know, was inconclusive, and now that we have a chance to prove he’s innocent…”

“Oh! Of course.” He patted his pockets, looking for something, finally located his glasses on his forehead, carefully polished them with a handkerchief. When he had perched them on his nose, he examined me carefully. “Sherlock Holmes, you said. All the way from London. Very kind of you. How can I help?”

“Well, I like to be thorough,” I began. “I didn’t know your son before the trial. We met after the mistrial was declared, and I’ve spoken with him several times now. Talking to family is something I do with clients—“

“Clients? You’re a solicitor, then?”

While the name _Sherlock Holmes_ is somewhat well-known in London, I must remind myself that there are many who have no idea who I am. Some greet me with recognition— _Ah, the great detective!_ — but this elderly parson looked blank.

“I’m a detective, a private investigator. The police consult me when they’re out of their depth. I have a gift, if you will, for seeing things that other people miss. This is why I’m here, because you know your son better than I do. He impresses me as a cautious man, wary of saying much. This makes me think I might be overlooking something, however small.”

He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know him any more.”

“Yes, and I’m terribly sorry to come to you like this. I know you haven’t been on speaking terms, and it must be painful to see him accused of such a terrible crime.”

“I stopped writing when he wouldn’t answer my letters,” the old man said. “He came back to London in 1919, made a trip up here. I saw him then, but he hasn’t been back. It’s hard for me to travel these days.” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “The war changed him, as it has so many of our boys. He’s like a stranger to me.”

“You wrote to him? And he wouldn’t answer?”

“Aye. The letters never came back, so I assume they were delivered. I don’t follow the news much, but when I heard about the trial, I wrote again. No response.” He shook his head again. “I can’t understand what happened, Mr Holmes. My John’s a good boy, for all the mischief he got into as a lad. I don’t know what sort of life he’s led, but I do know that he has a good heart and would not do what he’s accused of. I’ve been praying about it, hoping for some miracle. And here you are.” Through his tears, he smiled at me. “God bless you, Mr Holmes.”

“Mr Watson, I don’t know why John hasn’t answered your letters. He led me to believe that it was you who severed the tie between you.”

He frowned. “No. Why would I? He’s my son. Boys sometimes go astray, but there’s naught he could do that would put him outside of my forgiveness.” He pressed the handkerchief to his eyes, shaking his head. “It was the war that changed him. It must have been terrible. Harry’s death, and all… all that he saw. I wish I understood. He would never talk about it, though.”

“Look, I would very much like— if you are willing, and if your girl can supply us with some tea— to hear whatever you can tell me about John. And Harry, for he must be part of that story. I can’t promise it will give me the solution to this mystery, but many mysteries begin with the person. I want to know who your son was, so I can understand who he is now.”

Tea was ordered and served, and we settled into the chairs. He nodded when I asked if I might smoke a cigarette, and lit his own pipe.

“You have probably guessed that I married late in life,” he began. “My wife was older as well, and we hardly dared hope for children. Our first one, poor little girl, stayed only a week, but Harry was born healthy and strong, a blessing to us. Johnny followed on his heels, less than a year later.” He smiled. “Like twins, they were, ten months apart. Lucy never really recovered from his birth, so soon after his brother, and him so soon after our poor Annie. It weakened her, so she wasn’t able to care for him. I did what I could, hired in a woman from the village to tend him and Harry. Before Johnny’s first birthday, she’d passed on.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It must have been very hard for you.”

“My boys were a gift. My wife’s passing was difficult, but I believed that God had given them to me for a reason. They were my heart, my joy.”

“You didn’t remarry, then?”

“I might have, but I was fifty then, and it would have been a special woman for me to let her raise my boys. No, I kept a woman to manage the house and devoted much of my time to them. Harry was a terror— a sunny soul with an eye for trouble. John adored him. They started school the same year, and it was clear from the start that Harry wasn’t cut out for learning. He was a born salesman, a man who could talk you into selling your soul—“ He looked at me, smiling sheepishly. “Not literally. Harry had a good heart. John was a quiet boy, a reader, a lover of animals. Afraid of nothing, loyal to a fault. He would follow Harry anywhere, take the blame for every prank. The two of them and the spots they got themselves into—” he chuckled. “Well, everyone knew the Watson boys, angels with crooked halos.”

“Do you have pictures of them?”

He went to the bookshelf and pulled down an album. On each black page, photos had been carefully mounted with adhesive corners. Little Harry, a baby himself, holding his infant brother. John and Harry grinning and muddy. Harry pulling John in a wagon. Playing with dogs, rolling hoops, swimming, kicking a ball. Birthdays, Christmases, summers at the shore.

“Quite a resemblance between them,” I said. They were together in nearly every photo, but in the individual pictures, it was hard to tell who was who. “Two of a kind.”

“Harry had scarcely started rolling over when we learned we had another on the way. They were motherless, but had a blessing in each other. Always close in spite of their different temperaments. Losing Harry was hard for me. I can’t even imagine how John must have felt. They went into the army together, but regulations didn’t allow them to serve in the same unit. John was in the medical corps. I know he regretted not being there when Harry was shot.”

“He was wounded as well, wasn’t he?”

Hamish Watson frowned and shook his head. “No, Johnny wasn’t wounded. He was stationed further from the front, away from the worst of it. When the war ended, he came home in one piece. I thanked God for that he spared one of my boys.”

I thought back over my conversations with Watson. He had never actually said he’d been wounded, but it had been implied. _I was in a lot of pain,_ he’d said, and I had supplied the rest from the way he held himself, the limited arm movement. A shoulder wound, I had deduced, one that made his hand shake and forced him to give up surgery.

“Where was Harry’s wound?” I asked, but already knew the answer.

“In the shoulder. He bled out on the field, before they could get him help.”

“You saw John when he returned?”

“He came to see me, didn’t stay long. Went to Harry’s grave. Said he had a job in London, needed to return.”

“And then he didn’t answer your letters.”

“He didn’t. We weren’t on the telephone here, not yet, and I didn’t have any other way to reach him. I wrote to him care of the Veteran’s Office, since they would know where to send his checks, but then the letters started coming back as undeliverable. He knew how to reach me, so I assumed he wasn’t interested in writing or hearing from me.” He gave me a pained smile. It did not take extraordinary observational skill to see how much it hurt him.

“And you have no idea what he’s been doing since he went back to London.”

“Not until I heard about the murder.” The old man set his cup back in the saucer, his hand shaking. “I don’t know what to think. He wouldn’t do that, Mr Holmes. The war surely changed my son— but not like that. You could not make a murderer out of my Johnny.”

“I believe you. As I said, I’ve spoken with him. I do not believe he killed Mary Morstan, and I will do everything I can to prove he is innocent.”

His eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. Whatever he’s become, he’s still my son. I can’t bear losing them both.”

It was late afternoon when I reached London, but I went straight to the prison and asked to see John Watson.

He entered, smiling and quizzical. “Mr Holmes, I didn’t expect you so soon.”

“You lied.”

The smile vanished. “What?”

“You weren’t wounded in France.”

“I never said I was. You assumed—“

“You let people believe it. You admitted to pain, to drug addiction—“

“There are other reasons that people take morphine,” he said quietly, his eyes like stone.

“Why don’t you write to your father?”

“I told you. He doesn’t approve of me.”

“He didn’t cut you off. You cut him off.”

“You’ve made a lot of assumptions, Mr Holmes,” he said, his voice tight. “Does it ever occur to you that you’re not always right?”

“I saw him.”

His face transformed; it was apprehension I saw now. “Who?”

“I went to visit your father. He told me that you’ve visited him once, in 1919. Once, in four years—“

His face had darkened as I spoke. “You had no right,” he said. His voice shook. “You had no right!” He banged the table with his fist.

Outside the door, the guard rose and looked through the window. I remained in my seat; Watson’s head was bowed. Seeing no activity, the guard decided we were not having an argument worthy of his attention and went back to his crossword.

“I’m trying to get you acquitted,” I said. “Watson, you must be honest with me.”

He was silent, trembling, his face in his hands. “What have you done?”

“Watson, please—“

“You’ve ruined everything!” He began to sob.

“John,” I said. The length of the table separated us, but I was anxious to touch him, to comfort him and tell him it would be fine—

Before I realised what I was doing, I had risen and gone to him. “John, please. I’m so sorry…”

He rose and grabbed me then, not violently, but like a drowning man trying to find purchase on the land. Throwing his arms around me, still sobbing, he buried his face in my chest. “Oh, my God,” he wept. “Oh, God, no! You told him—“

I held him, stroking his back and murmuring soothing things, to little avail. “I’m sorry, so sorry…”

The door flew open. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I stepped away from Watson, who was still clinging to me, weeping. The guard pulled him away from me and hauled him towards the door. “You’re to remain seated, not touch the prisoner,” he repeated to me. “No touching the prisoner.”

I rose to my feet, but could say nothing. Watson would not look at me. Still sobbing, he was manhandled through the door by the guard.

The whole event had taken less than a minute. I stood there for a much longer time, unable to move. My hand went to my shirt, wet with his tears.

The guard returned. “I have to make a report, and they’ll revoke your permission to visit. You’ll have to talk to the warden if you want to come back.”

“Of course,” I said, too stunned to do anything but follow him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about halfway through! This chapter might be considered the crisis of the story, as Holmes oversteps a bit and creates a forced separation from John. No worries; Johnlock will eventually happen. 
> 
> This is a learning experience-- my first classic detective story. I’ve done plotty things before, but this has been a different experience for me-- difficult and fun. I’ve read tons of detective stories, watched all those PBS Mystery things, and being on the other side of the story is hard. I am used to analysing the clues, wondering who the murderer is, not inventing those things myself. Starting with the solution and working backwards is difficult. Trying to work a romance into it is even more challenging!
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments! It is helpful for me to see how people are figuring this out.


	9. Nine

I returned to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was out, which was inconvenient, as I had to make my own tea. There were a few biscuits, but I had neglected to cover them and they had become stale. The milk had sat out and was turning.

“Bugger it all!” I said, throwing myself into my chair. It was irrational to blame the tea, the biscuits, and the milk for what had happened, but they were the most convenient targets for my anger.

Here is where Mrs Hudson would have soothed me, reminding me that we had several good leads, that things needed a little time, and that nobody was more energetic than I when pursuing clues and talking up suspects. She would remind me that Watson was not going anywhere, and I would certainly be allowed to see him soon. _Poor man, of course he’ll forgive you,_ she would say. _He’s already in love with you, I’m sure of it!_

Well, she wouldn’t say that. She would wink at me, though, in that motherly way she has, showing me that she understands me and accepts who I am.

I cursed myself, though, for so abruptly revealing to Watson things that caused him pain. Sitting with my milk-less tea, bereft of biscuits, I tried to understand what had happened.

There were things he hadn’t told his father. If I’d not been so surprised when Hamish Watson said that it was his son who had stopped all contact, I might have questioned him more. But what more could there be to reveal that the newspapers hadn’t already printed? These things were all known. He had lived with a woman he was not married to. This might upset an elderly clergyman, but eventually, the affair had ended. By his own admission, he’d been addicted to morphine for a while, but he’d licked that habit. And addiction wasn’t so much a personal failing as a medical problem.

And he’d said in court, repeated it to me, that he was leaving that dissolute life behind, reclaiming self-discipline. He had determined not to go back to Mary Morstan, but to _get on a better track_.

I would need to talk to Farrell, I decided. The innuendo made in court might be gossip only, but if it were true, if Watson had been intimate with Farrell, that would be harder for a father to accept. Any father might be upset that his son was practicing perversion. I often counted myself lucky that my own father hadn’t lived long enough to learn his son was an invert.

My tea was awful, and now it was cold as well. I poured it into the drain, rinsed my cup, and settled into a thinking pose on the sofa.

I hoped that Mrs Hudson had been offered the position at Morstan’s. I wasn’t sure what I could do if he rejected her. I might have wooed Molly, just to have inside information, but I couldn’t afford to get her fired. I’d have to think of something else, I decided. But for now, I would remain hopeful. Mrs Hudson would come home soon and she’d make me something to eat, and I would tell her all about the vicar…

I wouldn’t have drifted off if I hadn’t slept so poorly the night before, up in Hexham. Sleep does not come easily to me when I’m forced to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.

My sleep was not restful, however. In my dream, I sat in a courtroom, watching a jury file in, hearing them read the verdict: _guilty._ And John Watson looked at me reproachfully. _You did not kept your promise_ , that look said. They led him away, outside, to where a gallows rose up. I saw him standing there, noose around his neck, still looking at me, disappointed. Fortunately, I startled awake before he fell through the trap. Then the dream would resume, always with the same scene, the same result. _Guilty._

It was late afternoon by the time I woke up with a crick in my neck and a sense of impending doom, the result of letting several hours go by without accomplishing anything. I consoled myself by ringing Sir Toby to ask him if he could get me back into the prison to see Watson. The rules about such things were unclear to me. Every time I’d entered that visiting room, the guard had said the same things. Was permanent banishment a reasonable punishment for a hug? It didn’t matter. I simply could not have watched Watson sobbing wretchedly and kept my place like an impartial observer. I really couldn’t have.

Unfortunately, SirToby had already left the office, the secretary said, and the peevish Mr Pierce was on his way down in the lift. _Would I like her to send the boy down to call him back?_

_No_ , I decided. Mr Pierce would be greatly peeved and remind me it was my own fault, and that rules must be followed, _damn it!_ He wouldn’t actually have said _damn._ He was a Methodist, and I suppose might have been provoked enough to say _Dash it all!_

Instead, I rang my brother at his lodgings in Pall Mall. His man answered, and informed me that Mycroft had not yet returned.

“Do you expect him?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“At what time?”

“I cannot say.”

Mycroft employs the least talkative servants because he despises conversation and prefers to keep his schedule top secret. He has a laconic man named Geoffrey, who manages the cook, the chauffeur, and the laundress, and the calendar. He never answers a question with more than three words. If any of his staff use four words in a reply, they are sacked at once.

“Will you please tell him to call me when he gets in?”

“Very good, sir.”

Having failed two objectives, I decided to give Lestrade a ring and see if he’d made any progress on the burglary.

“We got one of ‘em,” he said.

“Someone identified him?”

“They did. But the fellow won’t say who hired him.”

“Well, that in itself is a clue, isn’t it?”

“Not much of a clue,” he replied.

I felt myself grasping at straws. “Why would someone wait all this time to break into the agents? I’m thinking if someone wanted that manuscript, the first place they’d look would be Morstan’s flat.”

“Maybe Watson knows where she kept such things.”

“He didn’t know anything about it. Anyway, I’ve been banished from the gaol, so I can’t ask him anything else about it.”

“How did you get yourself tossed out? Did you try to hold his hand?” His snigger sounded a bit smug.

“Oh, do shut up. I said something that upset him.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing that pertains. I’m planting an agent with Charles Morstan’s outfit.”

“His outfit?”

“He has offices in the West End. I assume there are factories and things in the hinterlands where they make the tins, or put food in them, or something. And people who manage such things. But he works from town.”

“Who’s your agent?”

“Mrs Hudson. I had Miss Pinter’s typing bureau recommend her. By Jove, she’ll need a place to stay— can’t come back here each night— too risky.I doubt Morstan has the intelligence to follow her back to Baker Street, but he is a suspicious sort of bloke. He accused me of romancing his secretary.”

I heard him chuckle.

“Do stop laughing, Lestrade. I have romanced ladies before, as you know, in a good cause. This fellow Morstan, though, is an odious person. I am moving him up the list of suspects simply because he was unbearably rude to his secretary. An utter brute. Maybe you can look into his buying habits, see if he’s purchased any drugs or poisons recently.”

“So, you think Morstan did it, but he’s an idiot. My dear Holmes, I deduce that you simply don’t like the bloke.”

“My dislike does not exclude him from consideration. He’s her brother, for one thing, and, as you are aware, murderers are very often relatives. I have a few relatives _I’d_ like to murder, but have the good sense not to do it because you’d arrest me on the spot. Charles Morstan lacks good sense. In the second place—“

“Never mind, I’ll put somebody on it..”

“Actually, I’m rather leaning towards suicide. If only there had been—“

I didn’t realise I’d stopped talking until Lestrade prompted me. “What? You just did that thing.”

“Thing?”

“That thing where you break off in the middle of a sentence. You’ve probably got your hat in hand, ready to run out the door after some clue you’re not telling me about until you find yourself in hot water and need rescuing.”

“There is no hat in my hand, Lestrade. I am currently sprawled in my chair, pining for some supper.” I could hear the front bell ringing. “Look, if you could just think about the crime scene, let me know what was removed.”

“And you’re looking for what, exactly?”

“A note. That’s what people do, isn’t it?”

“Ah. Suicide note. No, there wasn’t anything like that. You know that would be the first thing we were looking for. When we saw there was no syringe, no bottle, though—“

“You stopped looking. So, look again.”

“Do you think she hid it? The whole point is for it to be discovered.”

The bell was still ringing, more impatiently now.

“Look, I’ve got company. Check for the note, and think about whether anything that might have been missing— removed before the police got there. I’ll talk to you later.”

Mycroft brushed past me when I opened the door. This was no small feat; his girth is twice mine. “Get dressed. We’re taking Mummy out to dinner.”

“ _We_? _Dinner_?” I said, not sure which part of the plan to challenge first. “How are these things decided without consulting me? As it happens, I’m busy.”

He looked me up and down. “You’re not. You fell asleep in your chair, have just been on the phone, probably with Inspector Lestrade.”

“I called you,” I said with some petulance. “You weren’t home, which forced me to deduce Geoffrey’s laconic answers. Like a word game, without the fun.”

“He told me. You’d already called Sir Toby by then. And you just rang off with Lestrade.” He smirked and touched the side of my face. “Handset leaves an impression. And your neck is stiff, judging by the angle of your head.”

“I know that. So why didn’t you call me back?”

“Because I was coming over to fetch you for dinner. Get dressed. Mummy’s waiting.”

“Give her my regrets. I’m not interested in dinner.”

“She will not accept regrets from either of us, as you know, brother. You might as well do what she wants and pretend you enjoy it. Resistance is futile.”

“I’m busy.”

“You’re not. You’re being morose, sulking about your doctor, whom you will not see for ten days.”

“ _Ten days_? That’s—”

“You broke the rules. You _hugged_ the prisoner.” He said this with a small shudder. Mycroft does not believe in hugs, unless Mummy initiates them, making them inevitable, resistance futile.

“Ten days is ridiculous. That leaves me hardly any time to consult with him. He was upset. I responded without thinking.”

“ _You’re_ ridiculous,” he responded. “Get dressed.”

“You should get a man,” my mother said.

I almost spit out my leek soup. “What?”

“A man. You need one.” She took a sip of wine. “Well, Mycroft has Geoffrey, who keeps him sorted. You need someone to keep your trousers pressed, match your ties, organise your socks, and make sure you don’t go out looking scruffy.”

“I don’t look scruffy, Mummy. I look bohemian.”

“Some concept, different word. I know you could afford someone, now that you’re in the newspapers.”

“My flat is expensive. And Mrs Hudson takes good care of me.”

“Well, she’s not feeding you up very well, is she? You’re as thin as a lath.”

The waiter took our soup bowls and brought the salad, which was beets.

“What entrees are you serving tonight?” A feeling of déjà vu was coming over me.

“The lady has ordered for the table, sir,” the waiter replied. “Roast joint of mutton is our special tonight.”

There was no getting around it, I decided. People were trying to feed me up.

Mycroft was silent, but I could see him smiling around aa mouthful of beets.

“Mycroft says you’re working on this case in the news. That young lady murdered by the army doctor.”

“Yes, my services have been engaged.”

She smiled and winked. “Quite a handsome fellow, wouldn’t you say?”

I gave a sigh of deep exasperation. “Mummy, a man doesn’t look at another man and think, _well, he’s quite a handsome fellow, isn’t he?_ “

“Why not? Women constantly evaluate one another’s attractiveness,” she replied. “A bit catty the way we go on, I’ve always thought, as if anyone can help being ugly. Even so, there are things a woman can do to improve herself, though she be as plain as a pancake. And men are every bit as catty as women, though more secret about it. So why wouldn’t they look at another man and think that he’s handsome?”

“What does it matter if he’s handsome?”

“He’s pleasing to look at. Do you think he’s guilty?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t be trying to prove his case if I did.” I frowned at the large mutton joint that was approaching. “Do _you_ think he’s guilty?”

“No.”

“What’s your reasoning?”

She smiled at me. “You like him.”

“Why does it matter how I feel? It’s a case.”

“You have a good, if bohemian heart, my dear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Darling, your heart is like a barometer. You _could_ not like him if he were a criminal. Therefore, he must be innocent.”

It was no good explaining logic to Mummy. “I wish it were so easy convincing a jury.”

“Never mind, sweetheart,” she said. “Bring your doctor around to meet me when he’s free again. Eat your mutton or I won’t order any pudding for you.”

Mycroft was eating his mutton even without the promise of pudding.

The hour was late when I arrived home. Mrs Hudson was still gone, so I picked up the mail. To my relief, there was a letter addressed to me in her handwriting.

_Dear Mr Holmes (she wrote),_

_You must not be worried that I have not returned to Baker Street; my news is good. I have succeeded in gaining employment at Morstan’s. It was as you hinted, the office in a shambles after the departure of Mrs Teague, nee Hawkins. I’m not so sure it wasn’t a shambles before her departure, if you get my meaning. Miss Molly has been very glad to have a new person at the other desk, and when I mentioned that I was your friend, she warmed to me at once. I am staying in her flat for the few days my investigation should take._

_A bit more about Mrs Teague, though I’m sure it doesn’t relate to anything I’m here to learn. Just gossip, but as you have often reminded me, the things people prattle on about can sometimes be telling, and the things they tell can be important. Mr Morstan has been extremely irritable since her departure, Molly says, and not just because he’s lost his bookkeeper. (In fact, he may be better off now, as it appears she wasn’t much of a bookkeeper, if you take my meaning. Very slipshod accounting, from what I can see.) It seems that Miss Hawkins, before she became Mrs Teague, was rather friendly with Mr Morstan. You know that I am no prude, Mr Holmes. Please understand that I speak in polite terms only because I have never met the lady and cannot fairly judge the circumstances that led her to think it was a good idea to be rather friendly with the man who pays her._

_That being said, Mr Morstan is not an amiable enough man for me to imagine any young woman wanting to be his friend, let alone something more intimate. He has no charm with people, and (I suspect) little skill at business. I have had a few choice words with him about the way his office is run. I told him that it does no good to bark at people who are meant to be trusted, and it in fact encourages spite. He apologised for being curt with me, but I suspect that is only because I am a formidable old woman who does not tolerate stroppy young men. I have experience in such, as you know._

_I am also experienced in collecting gossip. Molly is the source of much of this information, which I will be sure to verify for myself over the next few days._

_(Poor Molly really is a lovely girl. I judge her to be from a good family of small means, with some education. She is, unfortunately, very shy and uncertain, which hampers her chances at finding a young man, but only means she needs bringing out. It is her belief that she was hired because Mr Morstan sees no possibility of losing her to marriage. Sadly, she sees herself as a spinster already at no more than thirty. I told her that age is no impediment to marriage, and shared my own experience over three marriages, the last of which you were able to extricate me from with only minor misadventure._

_In fact, she seems to fancy you a bit, and really, if your heart did not tend down a very different path, I would recommend her to you. A sweet, intelligent girl who only wants confidence. (I have hinted to her that you are committed to another, lest her fancy turn to something more serious.)_

_Now, to business._

_The information I have learned is as follows: Morstan & Sons was founded fifty-two years ago by Jacob Morstan. He had two sons, William and Franklin. When Jacob died, the company was left to his sons. William was a good businessman who built up the company, but Franklin ran away to America and got himself killed, leaving the running of things to William. Charles, the only son of William, became the sole owner two years ago when his father died. _

_I asked myself why William Morstan didn’t include his daughter, Mary, in the ownership and operation of the company. Having run a business myself (though it turned out to be quite illegal, I do not think that obscures my point), I know that business sense has more to do with temperament than gender. Men make many assumptions about women, and most of them are wrong. Women are not born gossipy, fragile, or ignorant. Fathers train their daughters up in these things to keep them in a weaker position than their brothers. I am fortunate to have had a father who taught me important things._

_But I digress._

_According to Molly, their father was an old fashioned man who did not think women had any business running a business (if I may put it waggishly). Instead, he left property to her, putting it in trust and designating it as a dowry towards her eventual marriage. At that time, I’m sure he realised that she was turning out quite wild (the consequence, no doubt, of an oppressive upbringing), and hoped that she might be enticed into marrying and settling down. The trust was set up in such a way that she would not have access to this property until she married. Neither does Charles have access to it, for he is not the trustee. That is a man named Nathan Jessop, about whom Molly knows nothing, though we both suspect he is a relative. I will continue to search for the document of trust and attempt to discover Mr Jessop’s identity._

_Here is the interesting part: several months ago (early summer, as Molly recalls it), Mary came to the office to meet her brother for lunch, as she did monthly. This time, they had a great row behind the door of his office, after which Mary marched out with reminders to her brother to do something rude to himself. Molly, aware of the terms of the trust, divined that the argument had been about Mary’s prospects for marriage. She was still living with John Watson when this happened, though given the time line discussed in court, they may have been on the outs then. Molly’s impression was that Charles was pressing his sister to marry so that he wouldn’t have to keep supporting her. This was only an impression; she had no evidence that this was occurring._

_However, I remembered Dr Watson saying on the stand that on that terrible night when she died, she had suggested they might marry, and he had dismissed it as a ploy. I asked myself, what if Charles, running into financial difficulty, had cut her off, and she needed to get her hands on the trust? Perhaps you know what her income from the books was, and whether it would put her in a bad spot if he cut off her allowance. I am told that authors don’t make much money, but her books were quite popular. You would know better than I, or would know whom to ask._

_Assuming Charles is in some kind of money trouble (which seems probable), my next question is, what happens to the trust if Mary dies without a husband? Would it pass to Charles? That seems likely, but William Morstan might have had other ideas. Wealthy men do queer things in their wills. I have heard of one man, an avid hunter, who left a great deal of money to his dogs._

_Another question: if Mary had no will, would her book profits go to her brother, as next of kin? Would this be enough to ward off his debts?_

_I will attempt to figure out what sort of trouble he might have been in, and how deep. It might be worth the effort to track down Mrs Teague and see what she knows. Molly has kept in touch, so she will know where that lady lives._

_Well, I’m being wordy here, and I know how you are when you’re on a case, so I won’t bore you. Rest assured that I am doing the work, not in any danger, and (surprisingly) loving every minute of the intrigue._

_Not your housekeeper,_

_But always your friend,_

_Martha Hudson_

“Well,” I said to the empty sitting room. “Money, not love, may be our motive.”

There are a great many things which I enjoy owning. My sitting room is littered with books, souvenirs, and clutter representing various episodes in my life, all of them costing something, if not in cash, in experience.

My mother accuses me of being bohemian, by which she means that I do not spend my money on the right things. She would prefer that I pay more attention to my appearance, thinks that I should pay a gentleman’s gentleman to make me look like a gentleman. This seems rather circular, really. Why not just hire someone to impersonate me publicly and pay him to both wear the clothing and look after it?

The money I earn pays for my bread and cheese (need to keep the old apparatus functioning, after all), and does not cost me much in tedium. Unlike many people, I enjoy my work, and am glad to be paid for it. I could make more money doing other things, but what would be the point, if I didn’t like doing those other things? My time is spent doing what I love.

After reading Mrs Hudson’s letter, I was talking to the skull on my mantel (a relic of my bohemian existence) and thinking these thoughts because it is depressing to know how often people kill one another for money, when money isn’t really the thing they want.

Charles Morstan was such a person, I recognised. He wanted rich people to esteem him, but money hadn’t bought him that. If he was as big a fool as I suspected, his next step, after failing at being accepted by his social superiors, would be to get more money, in the hope that he would be valued more highly. Money was the motivation for every choice he made.

But love can never be discounted. As a motive, that is.

Had Mary Morstan loved John Watson so much that she would kill herself if she couldn’t get him back?

Had someone else loved her and killed her when she rejected them, so that no one else could have her?

Far-fetched, perhaps, but I could not turn my back on hate, either, as a motive.

I thought of John, his face livid, whispering _you had no right._

His face, his voice, his tears. I had thought of little else since it happened. He saw himself descending, becoming something his father would not accept, and did not ask for acceptance or forgiveness. Instead, he let himself be drawn into a life with no need for apologies or explanation— until that life paled, and he tried once again to reinvent himself.

Had John Watson felt that his life was ruined by Mary Morstan? Had he hated her enough to kill her?

No, this would be completely against my credo, which is not to love murderers. And explaining logic to my heart was no good.


	10. Ten

For several days, I had nothing to do.

Mrs Hudson was at work, uncovering whatever she could about Charles Morstan. I knew her to be a clever woman, and was sure that Molly Hooper would help her. Nevertheless, I worried about involving her in the investigation and had urged her to be cautious.

Caution takes time.

Lestrade was at work on the burglary, even though it wasn’t his division. Only because it involved Mary Morstan’s agent and her next book was he allowed to work with the detective assigned to the case. He would defer to Inspector Clayton because it wasn’t actually his case, and Clayton would be methodical.

Method takes time.

I didn’t have time. I was impatient to be doing something, and the only thing I could do was wait.

Lestrade would go over the crime scene evidence from Morstan’s flat again, just to appease me and prove that he wasn’t careless, but he wouldn’t find any evidence that the manuscript had been there because his men had been thinking of it as a murder, not a burglary. If I’d been here when it happened, he would have asked me to the crime scene, and I would have observed for myself.

I didn’t have time for self-blame and hypotheticals. A plan was what I needed.

There were people I could interview again— Bertie Pugh, Andrew Farrell, Irene Adler. Unfortunately, I had nothing new that they could help with, and was not in the mood to have inane conversations. The artists would ramble about art and authenticity and relativity and what it all means, and Irene would make cryptic remarks and smugly wait to see if I could unravel it. Thinking about either of these conversations made me want to bash my head against things.

Even if I had been willing to brave another evening at the Bolshevist, I didn’t know exactly what to ask; my questions would not be well-received, in any case, so it was better to wait until I had more to go on.

I was at my wit’s end, and didn’t even have Mrs Hudson to cluck at me and make me eat some toast and eggs. But if I did not eat something eventually, I would die. Dead, I would be of no use to John Watson.

I rang Mycroft, twice. The first time his secretary said he was unavailable. His secretary might be the twin of Geoffrey, judging by how little he reveals. He even looks a bit like Geoffrey, which speaks volumes about Mycroft’s taste in men. I was certain that Mycroft was sitting at his desk making shooing motions at him when he came to ask if he would speak with me. “He’s in a meeting,” the man informed me. “I’ll ask him to ring you.”

The second time, he picked up the phone himself. “What is so important, brother, that you must continue to interrupt me?”

“I need to talk to Watson,” I said.

“No.”

“How am I to carry on an investigation without consulting with him?”

“Do what you always do. Go talk to people. Ask questions. Deduce.”

“I need to make sure he’s not angry with me,” I said, feeling foolish.

“You need to make sure he isn’t hanged.”

This was blunt, and uncalled for. I disguised my tears by angrily shouting into the receiver, and rang off, feeling worse than ever.

Finally I went out, feeling neglected and wanting something to eat. There was a coffeeshop not far from Baker Street where sandwiches and other edibles could be found. Because everyone else in Marylebone was also in need of lunch, I had to wait for a table. While I waited, I noticed a familiar-looking girl ahead of me in the line. It took me only a moment to place her: the girl from the surgery, the one who had testified about Watson’s reaction when the police told him Mary was dead.

After racking my brains for a few minutes, her name came to me. “It’s Miss Pettigrew, isn’t it?” I said.

She turned and looked at me. “Who’s asking?” she said, somewhat flirtatiously. (Women do sometimes flirt with me, in spite of my rather odd face and obvious disinterest.) She was a pretty girl, bobbed hair under a clever little hat, a drop-waist dress with a schoolgirl collar, modest enough for work. A bit of makeup, probably pushing the limits of office regulations.

“Holmes,” I said. “Sherlock Holmes. I remember you from the trial, when you gave evidence. I say— they asked you a lot of questions, and you were an awfully good sport. Very poised.”

She smiled. “Was I? Well, it’s no great trick just to say what you remember.”

“Ah, but the detail you remembered— well, it was stunning, I thought. I’ve seen a lot of trials, in my line of work. Most people get up on the stand and hem and haw, and can’t remember the most basic things. You were clear as crystal. Painted a picture the jury couldn’t forget.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “You’re that detective, the one who solved the case with the emeralds.”

I’d solved many cases before that one, but anything involving jewels and wealthy heiresses gets a lot more attention than a mundane murder. I smiled modestly. “Well, yes. I have unraveled a few little problems.”

At that moment, she was called for a table. “I’m alone. Would you join me, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

Once we were seated at a little table which was close enough to the kitchen to hear the staff calling orders and crashing dishes, a distracted waiter appeared and took our order. She ordered egg salad, and I had cold roast beef with horseradish on a bread roll.

I resumed my line of questioning. “It must have been rather thrilling— in a bad way, I mean— when the police came in to arrest him.”

“It was,” she said, her eyes growing round. “Just to know we’d been working alongside a murderer for weeks! It sends a chill down my spine to recall the number of times he’d said, _Thank you, Miss Pettigrew._ ”

“Had he, erm, flirted with you?”

“We’re not allowed to carry on like that at work. Mrs Dodds— that’s the head nurse— doesn’t allow fraternication in the office.”

This took a second to process. “Ah, no fraternising. Good rule, I suppose, though it does cut down on the chance of meeting a handsome young doctor.”

She sighed. “He _is_ handsome. Which just goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover. All the girls flirted a bit with him, when Mrs Dodds wasn’t looking, but he was stand-offish. Not unfriendly, but rather aloof.”

“He didn’t flirt back?”

“Not at all. Very proper, we thought him. Maybe he reckoned himself above us. I thank my stars he didn’t ask me out. Blimey! I might be lying in a pool of blood, and the police scratching their heads. Gives me shivers to think of it!” She shivered, as if to give proof of this sentiment.

I didn’t point out that a pool of blood was unlikely, as murderers generally follow the same _modus operandi_ on subsequent victims. “You’re sure he did it?”

She nodded. “A crime of passion, I’m sure of it. He was a quiet one, but those are the ones you’ve got to watch out for. _She_ drove him to it, and she probably deserved it. All the same, you can’t kill people just because they tell you it’s over.”

“She ended it? I thought—“

“I know that’s what he said in court, that he’d left her. But men don’t like to admit they’ve been jilted, anymore than a girl would. That’s my experience. I’ve told a few men to shove off, in lady-like terms of course, and the story always comes back that they dropped me. If you ask me, it was pride. She was done with him and he felt slighted, so he killed her.”

“Why do you think she broke it off?”

“A girl like that? Too rich for his purse, obviously. He was cheap, a real penny-pincher. Brought a sandwich from home every day in a paper bag, folded the bag and took it home— every day! What kind of doctor does that?”

Miss Pettigrew had clearly observed the spending habits of many doctors over the year of her employment. From her standpoint, this was wise. One should always evaluate potential husbands to see how liberal they really are.

“His suits were nice,” she went on. “But I suppose she paid for them.” She sniffed. “What kind of man lets a lady buy things for him? A kept man, that’s who. It didn’t come out in trial, but I’m sure he had debts he was letting her pay off.”

“Tell me about when they came to arrest him,” I said.

“It was almost noon,” she began, settling into her story. “Me and Daisy was debating where we could get a bite, and Dr Watson was talking with Mrs Dodds, and in come these coppers looking grim. I knew right away who they was after. The policeman reads him his rights, and he looks puzzled. _What am I accused of?_ He says this like in a play, where you expect a long speech, but when they tell him _Mary Morstan was found dead this morning,_ he only just laughs. Not one question does he ask. He just says, _Mary? Dead?_ Like it’s a joke. Clearly, he didn’t expect anyone had seen him there.”

“You’ve said Dr Watson was aloof. Was he a humorous man?”

“He was friendly. But no, he wasn’t the kind to make jokes.”

“Might he really have been shocked?”

“Shocked to be caught, I’d say.”

“Most people are,” I replied. “Did anyone ever come to visit Dr Watson at the surgery?”

“Only that one fellow, one time.”

“Who was he?”

“Forgettable fellow.” She scrunched up her mouth, trying to remember. “He was a witness. Finley. No, Farrell. He came and talked to Dr Watson.”

“Did you overhear anything?”

“No, they went into Watson’s office. I could hear ‘em talking, but not what they said. I have an idea that Mr Farrell didn’t like it. His face, when he left— well, he was upset.”

“Ah, but a girl like you, with such observational skills, must have drawn a conclusion.”

“I don’t like to say. It isn’t decent.” She pouted for a moment, then could not contain herself. “When he was on the stand, the lawyer fellow asked him, but the other objected and he didn’t have to say.”

“You mean, when he asked Farrell about his relationship with Watson? You think there was… something going on?”

She nodded. “I can’t say for certain, but I got that feeling when they were standing at the door, looking at each other.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right, but they have rules, you know, about evidence. Things like that. You can’t send a man to prison based on a feeling.”

“That’s right. I suppose he’ll be convicted in the retrial.” She smiled. “I hope they’ll ask me to testify again. I’ve got a new dress for the occasion.”

After lunch, I went looking for Bertie Pugh, reasoning that I could ask her a few questions about that morning, when she discovered the murder. I took a cab, got off at Grosvenor Square and walked. It was a fashionable area, and I wondered how an artist could afford living there, even in a small downstairs flat.

The door was opened by a woman, blond and sylph-like, scantily clad and holding a glass of gin. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. Is Miss Pugh at home?”

Giggling shamelessly, the girl called out, “Miss Pugh! A gentleman’s here!”

In a moment Bertie appeared, wiping paint from her hands with a rag. She was dressed as she had been that night at the Bolshevist, without the jacket. Braces held up her trousers, and her shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Her shirt was splotched with pastels.

“Mr Holmes,” she said. She gestured at the girl with a greenish hand. “This is Primrose.”

“Lovely to meet you,” I said, bowing slightly and extending my hand.

The girl giggled again and took the hand. “Likewise.”

“Primmy, go make us some tea,” Bertie said.

The girl made her way back to the kitchen. I heard water running.

Bertie shook her head. “Silly thing.” She looked at me as if I might want an explanation. “I’m painting her.”

“Lovely.”

She removed a pile of filmy clothing from a chair and gestured that I should sit. Moving a stool from behind the easel, she took a seat facing me. “You’ve thought of more questions.”

It occurred to me that Bertie Pugh never asked questions herself. She only ever made statements. It was a bit off-putting how secure she was. A self-sufficient woman.

Primrose returned, handed us each a mug of tea. She left without speaking and returned in a moment with a tiny jug of milk and a sugar bowl. Since there was no place to set anything down, she offered them to me and waited while I added a splash of milk and some sugar to my mug, then offered me a spoon.

“You’re a nymph, I see,” I commented, just to have something to say. Her clothing was diaphanous, a bit transparent, her hair loosely captured in a wreath of flowers.

“It’s a commission,” Bertie explained. “Sort of a Greco-Roman orgy thing.” She lit a cigarette, but did not offer me one, waved her hand at the nymph. “Shoo, darling. We need to talk.”

“Did you ever paint Mary?” I’m not sure what made me ask this, but it might explain the tie between these women, and why she could afford to live here.

She blew out smoke through her nose. “I did. Several portraits.”

“I’d like to see them— if you don’t mind, that is. I suppose people are always asking to see your work. Must be annoying. They wouldn’t barge into a writer’s flat and demand to read a manuscript, or see a play. Being a visual artist, it must be hard to be private about things, I mean.”

“You have an artist’s hands,” she said, smiling. “A musician’s hands. I heard you play that night at Yuri’s.”

“I don’t often perform for crowds. People do come to my flat, and I never take pains to hide my violin, but usually they’re clients with a problem. I don’t do recitals, haven’t since I was in knee pants. I just play when I’m deducing. Helps me think things through, without actually thinking.”

She nodded. “It’s why we do this. Art is not a product, but a process. I find that it helps me define something, or someone. Once I’ve achieved that, I don’t need to keep the product.”

“I promised to let you paint me.”

“Yes. I’d like that. I’ve got this orgy thing right now, but afterwards, perhaps.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “You haven’t asked your questions.”

“I’ve been thinking about that morning,” I began. “You found her at around seven, as I recall.”

“Correct. You want to know why I was up there so early.”

“I am curious. You were her friend, and I’m sure you were in each other’s flats at times. But that particular morning, I wondered if there was a reason.”

“Coffee. I was out of coffee. She let me help myself to things— eggs, milk, tea, coffee.”

“You had a key?”

“She never locked her door. Watson used to lock it, but after he moved out, she just left it unlocked, even at night.”

“Did people know that?”

“I did. Maybe Andy knew.”

“You came and checked on her.”

“She liked company. She could be a hermit when she was writing, but most of the time she liked to have people around.”

“You’d heard Dr Watson there the night before, the argument they had. Was that part of the reason you came up?”

She nodded. “I’d heard the floor creak during the night, knew she was restless, and thought she might be up.”

“What time did you hear the floor creak?”

“I don’t know what o’clock it was. Still dark outside. It’s an old building; I’m used to creaking.”

“But you waited until morning to go up?”

“I have irregular habits,” she said. “After Watson left, I thought of it, but reasoned that she’d called him for an injection and would need to sleep it off. It was quiet upstairs, so I went to bed and fell asleep almost at once.”

“What time was that?”

“Eleven. Thereabouts. I roused and heard the floor creak a couple hours later.”

“You didn’t mention hearing anything when you talked to the police.”

She shrugged. “It’s their investigation, not mine.”

“Did you see or hear anyone on the stairs?”

“No.”

“When you found her, how did she look?”

“You’ve seen the police report. They took a lot of photos.”

“I’ve looked at them. She was in her bed, wearing a silk nightgown, in a normal sleeping pose. You hadn’t moved her at all. What made you go into her bedroom?”

“Just checking on her, as I said. She’d had a fight with Watson the night before, and I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

“You touched her, you said in your testimony, and said she felt cold. You must have noticed something wrong before you did that.”

“She looked asleep… but not. I watched, and didn’t see her breathing, so I took her wrist, and then put my hand on her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then I called the police.”

I wondered how long she stood there, watching. What was she thinking of, standing there, waiting for Mary to take a breath? “Did you fear that she had killed herself? Is that why you went into the bedroom?”

“She would not.”

“You sound sure.”

“I am. Mary wasn’t like that.”

“There was no note.”

“Which confirms my feeling,” she replied.

“Not all suicides leave notes.”

“She was a writer, and would have wanted to explain herself. I know her. She would not have killed herself.”

Her face was pale, her lips pressed together, holding something back. This was the first sign of real emotion I’d seen in her. On the witness stand, she’d been composed, Mrs Hudson told me. To her, the lack of emotion had seemed odd.

“Who killed her?” I asked.

Her face contorted for a moment. It might have been sorrow, but it quickly turned to something vehement and hateful.

“Watson,” she said.

Lacking Mrs Hudson’s ear, I went back to Baker Street and paced a bit, played my violin, and thought.

The floor creaking was a new bit of information. It might be meaningless; witnesses are notoriously unreliable about what they’ve seen and heard, and the more time that goes by, the more they seem to recall. This was exactly the kind of detail someone would _remember_ after a murder is discovered. I had no doubt that Bertie Pugh was a heavy sleeper. People like me, who sleep only when they’re exhausted, tend to sleep deeply.

But the possibility that someone had been in the flat during the night was not only intriguing— it was everything. Someone had to have been there, and I needed to know who. John Watson’s life depended on it.

Bertie Pugh might be lying, I realised. She might have killed Mary herself. Irene had hinted, and I had suspected, that the artist was in love with Mary. She’d admitted that she’d painted Mary, but hadn’t shown me. While it is tedious to have a skill that people are always demanding you show off, I sensed a reluctance in her. I would have to find another way to see them.

A creaking floor wasn’t something a heavy sleeper would notice, and it was curious that, if it had roused her, she hadn’t gotten out of bed to check. This led me to suspect that she might have seen something, heard something that she didn’t report to the police.

I heard the postbox thump downstairs and went down to retrieve the afternoon post. There was just one letter, addressed to me, typewritten. The return address was also typed: M. Hudson, 27 Monroe, Camden

Anxious to read what she’d learned, I nevertheless took the time to make myself a cup of tea and settle in my chair before I opened it.

_My dear Mr Holmes_ (she wrote) _,_

_I have several bits of information that you might find useful. I must be brief, as I am writing this from work._

_As I told you, I suspected Mrs Teague, nee Hawkins, knew something about the deplorable state of the office and possibly about Morstan’s money troubles, and I would try to track her down. With Molly’s assistance, I have been able to achieve this._

_She sent a wedding announcement to the office. Mr Morstan threw it in the bin, but Molly retrieved it, thinking she might send her a congratulatory note. After work yesterday, I called at the house and was able to meet with Mrs Teague, who was very eager to conspire against her former boss._

_“I can’t have him thinking I’m spying on him,” she said, “but I couldn’t work there any longer, knowing what a rat he is.” She admitted to a brief affair,went on to affirm that Morstan & Sons is most certainly having some money troubles, and that Charles Morstan has been attempting to disguise the losses in the books. He invested heavily in a scheme that turned out to be a fraud, which forced him to sell some of the company stock and take in a silent partner. She did not know who it was, or how much he had purchased, because someone out of the office had handled the sale and Morstan kept the documents locked in his desk. The only reason she knew was because she had overheard him on the phone. The company had, from its beginnings, never been out of the family’s control, and this seemed a sure sign of trouble. I will attempt to find out who holds the shares and how many, though I might need to break into his office to see those papers. Because he comes in daily and never leaves before Molly and I go, it may take some kind of ruse to get him out of the office. _

_The other thing she told me was that shortly before she left to be married, she was asked to work late one evening, updating the accounts for a meeting with his bankers. While she was there, a woman came to see Mr Morstan. She had no appointment, and did not give her name, but claimed to be his aunt. She announced the woman to Morstan, and he seemed puzzled. When he came out of the office to see her, he did not appear to recognise her. She said, “Do you mind if we talk in private?”_

_Dismissing Miss Hawkins to go home, he brought the woman into his office and shut the door. She heard them talking, but their voices were low and she could not make out words. She pretended to take some time putting away the books she was working on, in case he should open the door. Their tone was what kept her listening. Mr Morstan sounded very upset. The woman laughed a few times, and he did not join in._

_When it seemed too long to be lingering, Miss Hawkins left and went across the street to a shop, where she pretended to be looking for something while she watched the office. (I think you would find Mrs Teague a good detective; she has all the right instincts about following people and a strong sense of curiosity.) While she was waiting, she explained to the shopkeeper that she was spying on her husband, whom she suspected of cheating. She described the woman, and he promised to keep his eyes open._

_But she did not have to leave unsatisfied. The woman only stayed about a half an hour, and Miss Hawkins went back to the office, looking for her kid gloves, which she had conveniently left behind. Mr Morstan was there in his office, his head in his hands, pacing and moaning that he was ruined. When he heard her in the office, he stuck his head out and was rather rude to her, and she responded by asking him how his aunt was, implying of course that it wasn’t his aunt at all, which it probably wasn’t. Mrs Teague describes the woman as relatively young, perhaps thirty, and fashionably but gaudily dressed. Miss Teague assumed he’d had an assignation and was being blackmailed, but his failure to recognise her would seem to contradict that, unless the lady was representing someone else._

_As you say, it is foolish to draw conclusions without sufficient evidence. I will continue to look for more information about the will and Mary’s trust. I trust you are taking care of yourself and not fretting about me. As you know, I am a woman who can take care of herself._

_Very truly yours,_

_Martha Hudson_

No sooner had I set this down and started to think about what it meant than the phone rang.

“Sherlock Holmes speaking,” I said.

Someone was singing. “ _Once, I was everybody's baby, But right now, I'm lonesome as can be_.”

“Hello, Irene.”

“ _Each night and day, I pray the Lord up above to please send me down somebody to love, ‘cause nobody wants me…_ ”

“I wasn’t aware that you were religious,” I said. “Praying doesn’t suit you.”

“I was hoping you’d keep me company tonight,” she said. “So I won’t be lonesome.”

“I’m rather busy.”

“Doing what? Playing tiddlywinks?”

“I do have a case, as you know.”

“That’s why I rang you up,” she said. “You’re invited to a party. Well, I’m invited, and you can be my escort.”

“What sort of party?”

“The sort that Colonel Moran throws.”

“The sort where drugs are distributed to investors?”

“Fun can always be bought and sold. It’s just that some venues are better suited for some types of fun.”

“And you think this will help my case?”

“You may not know this,” she purred, ”but I’m quite a literature buff. I’m particularly fond of mysteries.”

I restrained myself from sighing impatiently. “Any favourite authors?”

“One in particular.”

“Irene, what is it that you want to tell me? Does it have something to do with a certain math professor?” Ordinarily I am a forthright person. I ask what I need to know, say what I need to say. Irene’s furtiveness was rubbing off on me, though.

“I’ll pick you up at nine. Look sharp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, for all your deductions! I appreciate your comments. ❤️ Stay healthy, stay safe!


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Conversation about sexual acts. Nothing terribly explicit.

In the cab, Irene turned to me with a severe expression. “You must be careful, Sherlock. This is not a crowd you’re used to.”

“I’m not as naive as you think,” I replied. “Though I may appear a harmless fellow, _Guile_ is my middle name.”

“ _Idiot_ is your middle name.” Her frown deepened. “You know little about the professor, even less about the Colonel. He’s not a mere henchman, as you suppose.”

“But Moriarty does entrust the operations to him.”

“Hush. Our host tonight is dangerous, and less subtle than the professor.”

I lowered my voice. “What, we can’t say names?”

“No. You know nothing about this gang, Sherlock. I’m going to keep my eye on you. You keep your eye on your drink.”

“I’m an experienced tippler, Irene.”

“I’m not talking about alcohol.”

“Chemistry is an area in which I am well-versed, at both an academic and a personal level.”

She gave me a bit of an eye-roll. “Just don’t lose your focus.”

“And what am I to be focused on?”

She smiled. “Whatever a consulting detective normally focuses on.”

The cab pulled up in front of a large house, standing in its own grounds near the bank of the river. Bentleys and Rolls Royces filled the street and the semi-circular driveway. I’d been to parties at large town residences before, but the entertainment in progress was like nothing I had ever seen. I knew how to act in the company of old wealth and new money, but when I walked through the front doors, I felt as if I had fallen down the rabbit hole.

“Irene Adler,” my companion announced herself to the doorman. “And William Scott, my cousin.”

I was surprised that she’d been able to find my two missing names, which I had attempted to lose while at Cambridge. My mother still called me William much of the time, but she can be forgiven. _Sherlock_ was certainly not her idea, nor my father’s, but the demand of an important aunt with ideas about naming infants. I prefer it, and the opinionated aunt turned out to be one of my favourite relatives. Even at ninety-three, Aunt Dorothy had a wit as sharp as a razor.

My own wits were somewhat overwhelmed by the chaos inside those doors. As I said, I am not socially inexperienced, and my profession has brought me into more than one den of iniquity, but am I not a man who seeks out the type of entertainments that seemed to be going on in a dozen different rooms off the large main hall of that house.

Cocktails were carried among the guests on silver trays. Irene grabbed us two glasses, tasted hers and nodded to me. It was champagne— a very expensive brand, I could tell.

In rooms surrounding that handsomely furnished hall, I observed music and dancing, gambling, drinking, and other entertainments. There were curtained recesses where couples retreated. A girl dressed as a nymph came tearing by us, followed closely by a man dressed like a toreador. She shrieked as he caught her and slung her over his shoulder. In the centre of the hall itself was a large fountain, in which several young ladies were bathing. The toreador deposited his conquest in the water, to much applause and laughter.

Irene inclined her head towards a man standing off to the side, surrounded by a cloud of bright young things in tuxedos and sequinned cocktail dresses. “That’s him,” she mouthed. Or she may have said it out loud.With the noise at such a level, one needed good lip-reading skills.

Colonel Moran was a large man, a man who might once have been a trim, handsome soldier, but had become heavy around the middle. His face was hard, with broken blood vessels and puffiness around the eyes, signs of overindulgence in alcohol and other things. He was a hunter, I recalled, who had bagged more tigers than anyone. This was the man who was running Moriarty’s drug business, Lestrade suspected.

As I studied him across the room, taking care not to stare directly at him, his face turned quite suddenly towards me, almost as if he felt my scrutiny. Frowning, he turned away, speaking to one of the servers.

“You’d best wander around without me for a bit,” Irene said. “You’ll be less conspicuous.”

I looked at the dress she was wearing, an oriental silk not nearly conspicuous enough for the level of decadence displayed by the crowd. “No one here I know.”

“Yes, but people know me. If you want to do your detective thing, you’d best blend into the wallpaper for a while.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to talk to Raymond Baskos.”

“The jazz pianist?”

“I’m singing at his club next week.” She smiled. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“I’m not worried,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “You should be.”

I wandered, and eventually lost track of her. When my champagne was gone, I stood at the bar and ordered a highball and, remembering Irene’s warning, watched as the bartender filled a glass with ice, poured whisky from a bottle, and added seltzer. The bottle had been open, but I tasted the drink and did not detect anything. I saw him pour a drink for another person from the same bottle. Unless they were drugging everyone, I was safe.

The noise was at such a level that polite conversation was impossible. Most tête-à-têtes were literally head-to-head and involved mostly shrieking. I strolled around, taking in the general chaos, and found myself in a group of people who were watching a pair of male dancers perform some sort of erotic ballet.

“Charming, isn’t it?” a familiar voice bellowed near my ear. I turned and saw Andrew Farrell.

“Rather!” I shouted back. “Deafening!”

He led me into a quieter room where a small orchestra was playing; couples were dancing, men with women, men with men, and women with women. It didn’t shock me, exactly. I’d been to clubs when I was in Cambridge, but there was at least a pretence of secrecy in the places where men came to meet other men. This room seemed not exclusively male, as those clubs were, and it surprised me that none of the same-sex couples seemed the least bit concerned about dancing among the others.

“May I?” Farrell said, setting my empty glass on a tray and taking my hand.

I do love dancing, and had always enjoyed the lessons my brother despised. But I had never danced with a man before, and suddenly understood that the asker has a great advantage. Women were lucky, I had assumed, being in a position to refuse rather than be rejected. Now I saw that the one who asks is in a position of power. In short, I did not know how to refuse.

“First time?” he said, leading me into a foxtrot.

“Dancing, no. This, yes.” I looked around the room at the other couples, who were paying us no attention. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a conversationalist. What do two men talk about when they’re doing a foxtrot?” I wondered aloud.

He laughed. “The standard topics, I suppose.”

He was leading, which I found temporarily disorienting. “You’re…”

“I am.” Giving me a meaningful look, he steered me around the floor. “And I can spot one across a dance floor. Pythagoras doesn’t give parties like this.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I decided he’d had a head start on me in terms of liquor. His eyes were a bit glazed. Perhaps this was a good time to find out what he knew. “I suppose you’ve been here before.”

He nodded. “You’ll never guess who I danced with last time I was here.”

“You’re an excellent dancer. I suppose Mary liked to dance with you.”

“She did. She also enjoyed seeing me dance with John.”

“Ah. So, you and John.”

“That wasn’t all she enjoyed.”

I smiled engagingly. “Tell me more.”

He brought his mouth close to my ear. “Only if you follow me into one of those alcoves.”

“Well, I’m not so easy.” I gave him what I hoped was a sultry look. “You’ll have to buy me a drink first.”

We sat at a table in the bar. Within seconds, a tuxedoed server appeared and took our orders. Farrell smiled at me vaguely and began talking about a play he’d seen. Glasses were soon set before us. “Cheers,” he said.

I took a sip. I’d ordered another highball, but it tasted more like gin than scotch. Another sip. _Definitely gin. Something bitter…_

I observed that Farrell was an ordinary man, average height, not overly stocky or slim. Most women would not consider him handsome, I judged, but he had no unattractive features, nor any memorable ones. I found it hard to put him together in my mind, to make him fit a category. The school he’d gone to was not the best, but one he needn’t be ashamed to admit. His family was not wealthy, but could afford the accoutrements of an affluent life.

Watson’s origins were much more humble. I’m not sure what told me this. I suppose because I was sent to Eton, following in the footsteps of generations of Holmes men, that I had an internalised class metric. I did not consider myself a snob, but I had the makings of one, and might have used those inclinations had I thought better of myself. There were subtle differences in the way a man like Farrell handled social interactions, and the way a man of Watson’s class would approach the same conversations. Watson was well-spoken, clearly educated, but there was something a bit defensive about him, even beyond the situation he found himself in. His manners were good, but self-conscious. He had done well, becoming a doctor, but did not pride himself on his success. Rather, he was always aware of his own inferiority, afraid it was slipping out.

Farrell was a man much like myself, I guessed, a son of respectable family and reduced wealth. A gentleman, whose parents had no doubt expected him to enter a respectable profession, marry a woman with money, and live a life of genteel snobbery. He had disappointed them, choosing a different direction; this was not because he felt the pull of art, or found the values of his parents hollow. It was a rejection of what felt ordinary, the draw of anything novel. He had stood out from his peers in no respect, had never been distinguished as an individual. What he craved was to be different, and admired for his difference.

He no doubt felt apart from the camaraderie of teams and sports, apart from the fraternity of university clubs. I understood that sense of isolation, for I had always felt an alien among my peers.

As an invert, I had longed for something different from my schoolmates, though I had no words for what that was. My isolation had never bothered me; it had been a fact of my existence that I had never sought to change. But I had something that Farrell lacked. I was more intellectually gifted than my classmates, and I had been able to create a career for myself where I could use my gifts. I hadn’t needed to conform; no one expected it of me. My poor manners and asocial behaviour were accepted by my peers because I had a mind that was above theirs, a talent that dazzled.

But Farrell had no natural talent. He was certainly adequate in respects that had brought him along, but he did not shine in anything. Had he been talented, his abilities might have lifted him above social constraints. His pretentious little plays, performed to small audiences of people like himself, could not raise him up because he was, frankly, not very good at writing. I did not have to look at his scripts or see his dramas to know this. One conversation about _authenticity_ had told me everything I needed to know.

Farrell had been drawn into a bohemian life because he hoped to own what he was, not because he had talent or ideas that clamoured for expression. When he talked of authenticity, he wasn’t really talking about art. He was talking about love. If he’d had real talent, he would have succeeded as a playwright. If he hadn’t been an invert, he wouldn’t have needed to write bad plays.

I did not want him, but I pitied him. He envied Mary’s success, and he hated himself for his envy, pretended it was admiration.

I lit a cigarette, offered one to him, forgetting he didn’t smoke. He was talking about some play he’d seen, dissecting it. I’d stopped listening. _Envious_ , I thought. _He envies people with talent_. And suddenly he reminded me of Bertie Pugh, envious of the beautiful because she had no beauty, and drawn to it as well. Maybe _it’s_ _a universal law_ , I thought, t _hat people both love and hate what they lack_.

“Did you have sex with Watson?” I asked.

His smug look answered me. “Mary suggested it. She knows I’m not attracted to women. She thought it would be _stimulating_ to see the two of us… together. Watson was her choirboy, and she loved the idea of seeing him with another man.”

A waiter refreshed our drinks. I sent mine back. “Just some soda, please.”

“We’d been drinking,” he went on, “the three of us, and were lying in her bed, fooling around. She said to John, _Andy’s all hot and bothered for you. Give him a kiss._ John said, _I don’t mind,_ and leaned over me, put his lips on mine. She egged us on. It was obvious we were both… interested.”

“But he isn’t queer.”

Farrell snorted. “He is. He just doesn’t acknowledge it.”

 _Leaving Mary was the most authentic thing he ever did._ I remembered him saying this to me. Watson’s father was a vicar, so naturally—

“But you do,” he said, laying his hand on mine. “You don’t mind, do you? I knew the first time I saw you, that night at Moriarty’s.”

“Tut, we don’t use names here,” I said. “It’s a secret, you know.”

Farrell giggled and leaned closer to me. “No secrets here, love. I know exactly what you want.”

“Tell me about Moran,” I said, playing for time. “What’s his game?”

“Oh, do shut up.” Farrell leaned in and kissed me. His hand cupped the back of my head and I felt his tongue exploring my mouth, biting my lip. “Come with me,” he whispered.

For days I’d been trying not to think about Watson doing this to me. Though I’d only had a swallow of the spiked drink, I noticed that I felt a bit woozy. My eyes closed. “John,” I sighed.

“You prick,” Farrell said, sniggering a bit. He lowered his voice. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you? Do you want me to tell you what it was like, having his cock up my arse? Hearing him—“ His hand snuck between my legs. “Do you want to know what it was like to feel him come apart— with her watching us?”

I remember thinking that the answer would be _yes. Yes, I do want to know what that was like._ Or, rather: _No, what I want is to know what it would be like having his cock up my arse, coming apart while those dark eyes watched me…_

I have taken drugs often enough to know that whatever was in that drink— _bitter—_ was not cocaine, and it was not heroin. I have experience with those substances. I am also a chemist— well, I never actually completed my degree, but at the point when I dropped out of Cambridge, I already knew more than my chemistry professor.

What I am trying to say is that I don’t know what was in that drink. I’d only had a couple sips, and I could feel it. Chloral, most likely. I couldn’t tell. But I was fairly sure who had put it there, and that person was expecting me to show a reaction. I closed my eyes and slumped over the table. I heard Farrell curse, a chair move. Someone sat down next to me.

“Mr Holmes.”

When I opened my eyes, I was looking into a pair of eyes that were so dark, they were nearly black. “Professor Moriarty.”

“You must drop it,” he said quietly.

I sat up. “Only a man with something to hide would say that.”

His face did not change. “Everyone has secrets, Mr Holmes. I’m sure Mary Morstan had some, as well, but I am not interested in her secrets. She was a foolish woman who wrote books for frustrated housewives and shop girls. I do not waste energy on such people.”

“But you have people who do your bidding.”

“I do not deny that I could have done something about her, but I am not the villain in your little mystery. It would be an obvious solution, I grant you. The Master of an Evil Empire of Crime murdering a beautiful but foolish young woman who discovers his secrets.”

I shrugged. “Improbable, but whatever remains must be the truth. Such a plot would sell a lot of books.”

He smirked. “What I say to you is this: why would I kill her? Why put myself in a position to have to explain things to thick-headed policemen? Your friend Mr Lestrade is waiting for me to make a mistake. He wants to see me in the dock. But I don’t make mistakes, Mr Holmes, and I will never stand in the dock. My _secrets,_ as you think of them, are not discoverable by ordinary people. You will never beat me, but if you keep poking your nose into this case, if you mention my name to anyone in connection with this—” he leaned towards me. “If you do not drop this, I will burn you.” His smile was empty, the smile of a sociopath. “I will burn the heart out of you.”

“I have no intention dropping it. Mary Morstan is dead, and John Watson may die, too.”

He snorted. “That’s what people do. Let them die. Good riddance.”

He held no glass, I noted, smoked no cigarette. A man of no foibles, perhaps, though I had never before met one. All men have a weakness, however much they try to hide. “You are a man of business, I perceive. As the ghost said, _mankind was my business._ ”

He did not blink. “It has nothing to do with me. And my business has nothing to do with you. I don’t need to kill you in order to burn you. Remember that. Back off, my dear.” He smiled. “By the way, have you found the manuscript?”

“I think you know the answer to that question.”

“Then let me save you some trouble, Mr Holmes. There is no manuscript. Stop wasting your time. She spent the last weeks of her life doping herself out. Sad, but not interesting enough for a detective of your calibre.”

“I assume you provided the drugs.”

“What she bought from my employees is a matter that does not concern me.” He rose and gave a small bow. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr Holmes.”

I looked around the room for Farrell, who had mysteriously vanished. Instead I saw Irene, marching towards me like a woman on a mission.

She sat down across from me, opened her purse and took out a silver compact. “There you are. Get yourself together.” Inspecting her face in the small mirror, she applied a bit of powder to her nose. “Stop gaping. Are you listening?”

“Together?” My head was beginning to swim, just a bit.

She turned her wrath on me. “You’re a child, and Andy is an idiot. Try to pretend you’re sober, at least until we get into the cab.”

She took my hand. I vaguely remember walking through the hall, past the fountain with the bathers, feeling as if my feet were made of lead, my head filled with cotton. I may have stumbled. I heard Irene laugh and tell someone I’d reached my limit. _Time to go home._

Once we stepped outside, the cold began to revive me. I turned to say something to her.

“Don’t speak,” she said. “I know who you talked to.” She huffed, her breath vaporising in the icy air. “He never comes. Why was he here tonight?“

“There’s a cab,” I said, raising my hand to flag it down.

The cab pulled up and we climbed into the back seat. Irene shushed me when I began talking, inclining her head towards the driver. She gave him my address; we rode in silence.

When we arrived, she stepped out with me, asking the driver to wait.

“Holmes, listen to me,” she said once we were out of earshot, standing outside the door. “This is important.”

“You’re afraid. What did he say to you?”

She shivered, tugged her little fox wrap around her shoulders. “He would kill me if he knew— he may decide to kill me anyway.”

“He threatened me as well, told me he would burn the heart out of me if I continue prying.”

“What did you say?”

“He wasn’t asking a question, Irene. I said nothing. Well, I may have said I had no intention of stopping.”

“You’re a fool.” She looked not angry, but sad.

“Why did you invite me? Clearly it wasn’t your idea. He asked you to bring me there so he could have words with me.”

“You should take him seriously. Stay away from him, Sherlock. You’ve brought yourself to his attention with this investigation, and it can only end badly for you. It’s much better to be a person he does not notice.”

“And who brought _you_ to his attention? What power does he have over you?”

“Very little,” she said. “I’m not like you. I intend to stay out of his way.”

“He isn’t a man who dirties his hands poisoning flappers who write detective stories,” I replied. “Mary was too minor an irritation for him to bother killing her. I find it hard to believe she could write anything that would make him nervous. I’ve read two of her stories, and they’re just silly mysteries. People read them because of the romance.”

“You’re being too clever for your own good. It’s really much simpler.”

“Is there a manuscript?”

She shrugged.

“What about Watson? Could he have noticed Watson, had some reason to—”

“How would I know? I’m not his intimate friend.”

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “Who did this, Irene? Everywhere I turn, I’m running down dead alleys. If you know something, please tell me. I don’t have a lot of days left.” _John doesn’t have a lot of days left._

She studied me quietly. “People hide what they most value. But they keep it close. You told me that.”

The first time I met Irene, I was disguised as a clergyman, trying to discover a portrait that she had hidden, one that could have scuttled a royal marriage and changed European history. I created an emergency— a small fire— to force her to reveal where she’d hidden it, knowing that it was somewhere in her house. Unfortunately, when I returned in burglar gear to retrieve it, she had cleared out, taking everything with her. 

“No riddles, Irene. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you have everything you need to solve this.” She laughed. “Only you’re too swizzled right now to think it out. He put something in your drink, you know.”

“Obviously. Not the usual cocktail. Probably chloral hydrate.” I grinned. “And I’m not swizzled. I only had two sips.”

“I warned you. He knew you would be on your guard, unlikely to drink anything. Two sips? I can only guess how much was in that drink. He could have killed you tonight, and no one would be the wiser. _Celebrated private detective dies from overdose. Friends are shocked, loved ones grieve a brilliant life cut short_. Believe me, it would be nothing to him.”

“I’m not dead, Irene. And I’m not an idiot.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Sherlock,” she said. “Good night.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and walked towards the cab.

I awoke feeling hungover. Choral hydrate acts within minutes, but the effects last for hours. Though I hadn’t taken more than a couple swallows of my drink the previous night, I felt as if I were swimming in mud. I recalled the party, dancing with Farrell, the strange conversation with Moriarty, the cryptic words Irene had said to me. But I wasn’t sure how many hours ago that had taken place. Or how many days I had until… Until…?

Remembering the trial, I shot out of bed like a marionette whose strings have been yanked. This taught me one thing: jumping out of bed after a night spent imbibing alcohol spiked with sedatives is almost sure to result in wishing one were dead. I am not a man given to despondency, but the headache that followed my reckless and sudden elevation caused me to lie down on the floor, wishing that someone would put me out of my misery.

That saviour apparently was in my flat.

“Woo-hoo! Mr Holmes!”

I heard footsteps approach. “Tea,” I said weakly.

“Gracious! What have you done to yourself?”

I opened my eyes and saw her glaring down at me. It was then that I noticed my state of undress. I deduced that I had disrobed, been unable to find any pyjamas, and crawled in bed naked. Scrabbling around, I looked for the sheet I’d been wrapped in.

“Mr Holmes, I hope you haven’t been taking anything you oughtn’t. If your brother hears—“ She droppeda blanket on me. “No worries, love. I’ve seen it all before. My Jack used to wander around the house in the altogether sometimes, usually after he’d had too much to drink. We’ll get you fixed up. Mycroft needn’t know.”

“It wasn’t voluntary,” I whimpered. “Tea. I beg you.”

“Never mind. A nice cuppa will set you right, love.”

Relieved that she had caught on about the tea, I added, “Maybe you could talk more quietly. Just until I’m upright.”

“I’ll make you breakfast, dear. Just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

She left me to sort myself out. I saw my clothing piled on the chair, lifted my shirt and smelled Farrell’s cologne. And there was a bit of Irene’s lipstick on the collar, where she’d deliberately missed on her way to kissing my cheek.

It was a very good thing, I admitted, that she had warned me, and an even better thing that I hadn’t downed that highball with abandon. I’d thought I was fairly coherent when she dropped me off, but now my head felt like porridge, an unmistakable sign that it had been amply spiked. It was a test, I realised. Moriarty knew Irene would caution me, and he’d been willing to kill me if I’d been stupid enough to drink it. And now he knew I wasn’t stupid.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember what Irene said. _People hide what they value._

People hide many things, some trivial and some not. What one person values may mean nothing to another. There were many people in this mystery who were keeping secrets: Charles Morstan, Bertie Pugh, Andy Farrell, Irene herself. And it went without saying that Moriarty had secrets, and that he didn’t like people poking their noses into his business.

_It’s really much simpler._

Perhaps Irene was right. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been too clever for my own good, Irene’s case being a prime example of that. It was beginning to look probable that I’d conscripted Moriarty into this mystery because he made a good villain, and because it was a chance to finally catch him. Free John Watson, hand Moriarty over to Lestrade— a double victory. Mycroft had warned me against him, and Irene had done the same. That had only set me on his trail with more determination. I am an idiot sometimes.

Maybe Mrs Hudson had found out something about Charles Morstan. He was still a good candidate, and not just because he was an odious person. All of us are more likely to be murdered by our nearest and dearest than by people who don’t know us. Suicide could be ruled out, so murder it was, and the likeliest motive was money.

I threw down the shirt and went to take a bath.


	12. Twelve

By the time I made it to the kitchen, my head was no longer aching as much, and Mrs Hudson was making eggs and toast. I was glad I’d put on trousers under my dressing gown when I saw Molly seated at the table, eating toast with jam.

“Good morning, Miss Hooper,” I said.

She turned pink. “Good morning, Mr Holmes. I hope it’s all right— Mrs Hudson asked me to come by so we could brief you.”

“We have information,” Mrs Hudson added. “Just let me know when your brain is up and running.”

“You ladies have escaped from Morstan & Sons,” I said. “How did you manage that?”

Mrs Hudson filled my cup with tea. “It’s Sunday, Mr Holmes.”

“Oh. Then I suppose I haven’t missed a day. That’s good.”

She placed a plate of toast in front of me. “Eggs will be ready in two ticks.”

“Thank you.” I spread some jam on my toast. “When last you wrote, you were planning to burgle Morstan’s office, looking for wills and trusts and so forth. I assume your news is about that.”

Smiling, she spooned eggs onto my plate. “As you may have noticed, I borrowed your set of pick-locks, the ones you keep under the humidor. Once I’d secured them in my handbag, I paid a visit to Mr Croft.”

“Mr Croft?”

“He’s been out of gaol for some time now, Mr Holmes, and he doesn’t do any burgling now. These days he’s running an honest business with his brother. They have a locksmith shop on Crawford Street.”

I set my fork down. “Mrs Hudson, are you trying to tell me that you’ve learned how to pick locks?”

She gave me a severe look, her cheeks flushing a bit. “My dear Mr Holmes. Tools do not have a bias towards evil or good. They can be employed in a noble cause, or as instruments of the Devil. I believe you and I see eye to eye on this. We wish to save a life, and in such a cause, a pick-lock becomes a tool of justice.”

“I see. You do not have to explain yourself, Mrs Hudson. I entrusted the operation to you, and have great admiration for your methods. If I am amused, it is because once again, you have succeeded in surprising me. I’m merely taking delight in imagining your stately self walking down Baker Street with a set of pick-locks in your bag. I will be sure to say a prayer for your soul the very next time I stop by St Cyprian’s.”

She sniffed. “You needn’t worry about my soul, though I shall not discourage you from going to church, as it is a rare occurrence. Shall I continue?”

“By all means. Your story has me breathless with anticipation. I hope Morstan did not catch on to your plan. He began to suspect me of things as soon as I set foot in his offices.”

“Honestly, Mr Holmes,” she said as she refilled my cup, “you really need to recruit some women for your Irregulars. That typing bureau— well, women like us can go anywhere, completely overlooked, gather intelligence right under men’s noses. Or carry a ring of pick-locks stashed in a handbag. Everyone discounts us, you know, not just men, especially once we reach a certain age. It’s as if they think a woman’s brain vanishes once her figure is gone. Men like that might treat an old lady with respect on account of her age, but they don’t think much of any woman’s intelligence. That’s the genius of it.”

“Indeed. Mrs Pinter has provided me with spies on several occasions. She is an invaluable resource.”

“Molly dear, tell him about our burglary, and I’ll start the sausage.”

Looking a bit nervous, Molly began. “Mr Morstan usually continues working in his office after we leave, but Friday night he left early, saying he had a headache.”

“Don’t forget to mention how clever you were, dear,” Mrs Hudson added, giving her an encouraging smile.

“He despises chemical smells,” she continued, “so I told him an exterminator would be in to take care of the centipedes in the file room.”

“Centipedes?” I asked. “What kind?”

“Oh, there weren’t any centipedes, not really,” she said. “But Mr Morstan has a horror of bugs—“

“Even the helpful ones like bees,” Mrs Hudson added.

“It’s almost a phobia.” Molly suppressed a grin. “And then Mrs Hudson said they couldn’t be centipedes because didn’t I see that they had wings? And they were making a hissing noise—“

“—I was thinking of those African cockroaches,” Mrs Hudson said. “Or maybe they’re from the Amazon. In any case, our objective was achieved.”

Molly giggled. “Mr Morstan said that if the exterminators were coming he’d better leave because the powder they use always gives him a headache.”

Taking a forkful of eggs, I chuckled appreciatively. “Flying centipedes. Very resourceful.”

“Once we saw him head around the corner, we finished typing some letters and cleaned up the office for the next quarter hour, in case he should change his mind and come back for something. At that point, we knew he was on the train and wouldn’t be back.” 

“That was very prudent of you.”

“Mrs Hudson had the lock picked in no time,” she continued, smiling at that lady. “There were papers all stuffed inside the desk, not concealed in any way. We weren’t sure what it would be called, since Mr Morstan doesn’t know the first thing about filing procedures.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Molly said we’d better keep them in the same order or Mr Morstan would notice and get angry.”

“He seems rather an angry chap,” I commented. “Even under the best conditions. If you can believe it, he was impervious to my charm. I’m sure I never make people angry.”

“Oh, yes,” Molly said. “He’s that way with everyone. Any little thing will set him off. We were careful, though, as we dug our way through his pile, and finally, near the bottom, we found a file box containing everything.”

They were smiling at one another, pacing the story for maximum drama, but I could not help myself. “And…? Who is the secret investor?”

“Patience, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said, winking at Molly. “There were two stock transactions, not just one. The first one was a year ago, when a little less than half of the total stock was sold to a man named Nathan Jessop. The other was a couple months ago, when the stock formerly belonging to Franklin Morstan was transferred.”

“Franklin Morstan? Wasn’t he was one of the sons? He went to America and died.”

“Yes— only he didn’t die without a will,” Molly said triumphantly. “Or an heir. He’d married a woman named Maggie Hughes.”

“William knew his brother was not dead?”

“We found correspondence,” Mrs Hudson said. “The last letter was 1910, when he said he was going to Alaska to work a homestead and mine for gold.”

“Charles must have known that his uncle had been alive then. When did William die?”

“In 1916.”

“Charles knew that Franklin owned half of the shares,” I said. “But he sold most to his own shares to this man Jessop. He was counting on Franklins’s shares. He hoped to prove Franklin had died—“

“You’re getting ahead of us, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Hudson said. “When his money trouble started last year, he contacted Jessop and arranged the sale. This gave him the cash he needed. He intended to buy back the shares, but his trouble worsened. He then contacted a solicitor and began proceedings to prove his uncle dead. That’s when he heard from Maggie.”

“Franklin is dead, I presume,” I said. “You said he had a will.”

Molly nodded. “Two years ago. Maggie has a death certificate to prove it. And a certificate of marriage, proving they were legally married.”

“Charles hadn’t known that Franklin was married,” said Mrs Hudson. “He never said as much in his letters, so it must have happened after his brother’s death. Furthermore, from the dates of the Maggie’s letters and the documents in the file, she might have been the after-hours lady caller that Mrs Teague told me about. She came to prove herself the rightful heir of Franklin.”

“That sheds some light on Morstan’s troubles,” I said. “He had debts and sold nearly half the shares to Jessop, thinking he would retain control of the company as the majority stockholder once Franklin was declared dead, and eventually buy back the rest from Jessop. That might have been part of their agreement. When Maggie showed up with the will, he realised that he couldn’t get his hands on those shares, leaving him—“

“Bankrupt,” concluded Molly. “He’s deep in debt, and has all but lost the company. Maggie is the majority shareholder.”

“And if she has any sense,” added Mrs Hudson, “she’ll fire him, hire somebody with better business skills to manage the firm.”

“This woman, Maggie, interests me,” I said. “Is she still in town? I think I might need to pay her a visit.”

“She’s staying in Piccadilly,” Molly said. “I have the address.”

“Ladies, we may just have a motive,” I said, smiling at them both. “The only recourse left for Charles was to get hold of Mary’s trust. What did you find out about that?”

“The trust agreement we have yet to discover,” Mrs Hudson replied, nodding at Molly. “What I don’t understand, Mr Holmes, is why would he encourage his sister to marry? If she had married, the trust would have been out of his reach.”

“I think it shows us a timeline of his trouble. He was paying her an allowance, which must have been generous. In early summer, he needed cash, and began to wonder why he was handing over money to her when she might simply marry and have her own income. That was when he sold the stock to Jessop. Then things got worse, and he realised Franklin’s shares were not going to be his. By August, he decided that the money in the trust was his only recourse. Mary had split from Watson for good, it seemed, so a marriage wasn’t—“ An idea hit my brain like a meteor. “Molly— you said that you heard them argue.”

“Who did I hear arguing?”

“Charles and Mary. You said she met him for lunch and they had a _great row._ I think those were your words. And you thought it was because she refused to marry.”

“I did, at the time. I didn’t hear what they were saying, but I knew that he had some debts, and was paying her an allowance…” Her face clouded, then suddenly cleared. “Oh! You think she was planning to propose to him— and Charles was trying to convince her _not_ to marry Watson because he needed the money from the trust.”

“Very good, Molly. That’s exactly what I’m thinking. It was in June, I believe you said. She wanted to marry Watson, and he was trying to put her off. He needed more cash than he’d realise from ending her allowance. If I’m right, he was already planning to kill her then. Perhaps he even thought he could frame Watson.”

“Mr Holmes, I cannot agree,” said Mrs Hudson vehemently. “Charles Morstan is a rude, ill-tempered, rather stupid man, but he would have to be a monster to do what you’re suggesting. I do not think he is a monster. And he is not careful enough to plan something like that.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Mrs Hudson.” I rubbed my eyes, still grainy from my late night. “I’m afraid murderers don’t always turn out to be monsters, though. Very often they are simply people who make a terrible error in judgement. In any case, I’d like to get a look at that trust agreement.”

She nodded. “Since it’s a family document, I assume he keeps it at his house, in his safe. If it’s a typical home safe, it shouldn’t be hard to crack, says Mr Croft.” She blushed. “He gave me a demonstration when I was in his shop.”

“No, Mrs Hudson, I shall not contribute to your delinquency any further. I will confront the man myself. Under the normal terms of such trusts, the property would go to him if his sister hadn’t married, but we may be wrong. William might have intended it for Charles’ progeny, or the suffragette movement, or the starving artists. I’m assuming that Charles will be more talkative when that I can make a motive for him. But first, I’m off to see Mrs Morstan.” I stood, brushing crumbs off my dressing gown. “Good work, ladies. I owe you nothing less than dinner at Simpsons.”

Molly was off to visit her sister, and Mrs Hudson was tidying the kitchen.

Leaving last night’s clothes on the chair, I found a clean shirt and selected my navy blue suit for my visit to Mrs Morstan. People always trusted me in that suit, and confessed things they might not have confessed to a black suit, or a grey one. I had no theory about it, but had observed that my most successful interviews were always conducted when wearing the blue.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Mrs Hudson asked as I put on my overcoat.

“I think not,” I replied. “I need to be a bit of a fool today. With you at my side, I’m always much too sensible.”

She smiled and reminded me to take my scarf. “Winter’s upon us. It’s December already.”

 _December?_ I froze, counting days in my head. In one week and one day, Watson would be back in court, and I had nothing for Sir Toby. We could not count on getting a more reasonable jury than the one we’d had in the first trial. The only option was to find the person who murdered Mary Morstan so the Crown would dismiss the charges against Watson.

 _Focus,_ I told myself as I went down to catch a cab. I couldn’t see Watson until Thursday, just a few days before the trial. By then, I told myself, I would have an answer. I only hoped it would be the right one.

Mrs Morstan had taken a set of rooms off Regent Street, near Piccadilly. I rang the bell and waited, hoping that she would receive a visitor who hadn’t rung her in advance. An older woman came to the door; from her dress, I assumed she was the maid.

“Who may I say is calling?”

I pulled out my card, preparing to hand it to her. “Sherlock Holmes is my name.” I might have said I was an acquaintance of her nephew, but I wasn’t sure if that would improve my chances of speaking to her.

“Send him up, Betsy,” a voice called from the top of the stairs. American accent, a woman of perhaps thirty at most.

I climbed the stairs, recalling what little I knew about the woman. Mrs Teague had seen her. _Young_ , she’d said. _American_. Not much to go on.

The woman who welcomed me into the sitting room was tall, with bottle-blond hair cut in a bob and an amused look on her face. She wore a drop-waist dress of grey-green that matched her eyes. I handed her my card.

“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs Morstan.”

“So, you’re the detective,” she said. “What brings you here?”

“I am investigating the murder of your niece, Mary Morstan.”

“You’re trying to clear her boyfriend, the doctor.”

“I am. If it’s not inconvenient, I hoped I might ask you a few questions.”

“Do I look busy?” She arched her eyebrows at me.

“What I mean is, I don’t usually just pop in on people without warning.”

“You English, you’re all so very polite. It’s hard to tell when you’re lying.”

I smiled. “My motto is _Everyone Lies_. I believe it’s engraved on the Holmes family crest.”

“You have a crest? Gee, I wonder what’s on the Morstan crest, or if they’ve even got one. Charlie has probably had one commissioned, with peacocks and unicorns and garlands of canned sausages.”

I chuckled. “And a motto in Latin: _Nemo me derideat._ ”

“Meaning?”

“ _Let no one laugh at me.”_

She laughed. “Sounds about right. Charlie does take himself awful seriously. Frank used to tell me about him. Even as a little kid, he used to pretend their grandfather was an earl or something.”

The maid brought in tea. Mrs Morstan thanked her, but rolled her eyes once her back was turned. “Don’t you all ever drink coffee? Everywhere I go, people are handing me cups of it. To be honest, I’m not really much of a tea drinker.”

“Tea is assumed, but I’m sure your kitchen staff could manage coffee, if you ask.” I stirred sugar into my cup. “I confess that I’m trying to deduce your accent, but my ear for the American dialect lacks experience. Where did you meet Franklin Morstan?”

“In Alaska. Though I’m an Oklahoma girl. Part Cherokee, though you wouldn’t know it to look at me. My pa brought the family to Alaska, thinking he’d make a bundle somehow. Frank was our neighbour.”

“Did you know about his family?”

“I was curious. The accent, you know. Not a lot of Brits in Alaska. He told me about the tinned foods and all, and why he left.”

“Why did he leave?”

“Nothing sinister. His brother liked running the company, and Frank hated it. William had insisted that he keep his shares. In case anything happened to either of them, he hoped to keep it in the family.”

“When did you learn that William Morstan had died?”

“Frank had some addresses in his things, and when he died, I decided to write to his brother. I didn’t hear back for a while, then I got a letter from a lawyer, telling me William had died, and Charles was running the company.”

“I believe Charles thought his uncle dead.”

“You know, Frank probably wouldn’t have cared about the money. He hadn’t talked to the family in years, and he did okay for himself in the States. He’d bought land out west after we came down from Alaska, and it turned out to be worth something. I don’t really need the money, but it seemed like the right thing to come anyway, even just to meet Charlie. Frank may not have cared about family history, but I thought it was important. I don’t know my own history, just my granddad’s name and that he’d married a Cherokee. Frank had all this family history he never talked about. It oughta mean something. Besides, if you’re going to have a conversation about money, I think it needs to be face-to-face.”

“How long were you and Frank married?” I asked.

“More than ten years. I know you’ll think I was a child then, but I was fifteen. Is that too young? Maybe here, but in Alaska it’s legal. Frank was a good man. He died just over a year ago. Cancer.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. And sorry that your nephew is such an arse.”

She laughed. “I like you, Sherlock Holmes. How can I help you?”

“I believe that Doctor Watson is innocent, but there is circumstantial evidence that could convict him— unless I find the true murderer. I know that Charles had a rather strained relationship with his sister, and I have not yet been able to eliminate him out as a suspect.”

“Charlie? You think he murdered Mary?”

“I don’t know. But relatives are always suspects until they can be ruled out.”

“He doesn’t have an alibi, then?”

“He does,” I said. “His wife says he was home that night. But it’s possible that he could have paid someone to do the murder.”

She shook her head. “Why would he, though? What’s his motive?”

“That is partly what I am here to discover. You and another shareholder now own nearly all the stock of Morstan & Sons. Where does that leave Charles?”

“I’ve told him that he could continue to manage the company,” she said, “since he knows the business and I don’t. I’m willing to pay him to do this. Well, I guess he’s not a great manager, but he’s family, and he’s on hard times. I’m willing to give him a chance, maybe hire somebody smart about money to help him. As I said, Frank wouldn’t have cared about the money, and I’m set with what he left me. I don’t need another asset to manage. If he hadn’t been rude to me, if he’d expressed condolences like a normal person, I might have offered to sell the shares back, or even given them back.”

“You have accepted the shares, so I conclude that he did not act like a normal person about it.”

She snorted. “He insulted me, implied that I was a common gold digger, after Frank’s money. He said my marriage license wasn’t valid and he’d take me to court. I wondered if he knew Frank was alive when his dad died and didn’t bother to contact him. He claims he didn’t know— well, that’s neither here nor there. As I said, I wasn’t so interested in the company, but I’m not going to be talked to like that. I won’t toss him out on his ear, though. I might be resentful, but I’m not stingy, and he’s still family. I’ll pay him a fair salary.”

“What about his sister? She owned no part of the company, as I am told.”

“No. Their father set up a trust for her, a sort of a dowry, Charlie said.”

“Perhaps your sudden appearance and claim on the company is why he was pressuring his sister to marry.”

“Could be. If it was a dowry, she’d have to be married to claim it. I suppose he wanted her to be taken care of.”

“Who will those assets go to, now that she’s dead?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. You don’t think he killed her for the trust, do you?” She looked puzzled for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Oh, you _do_ — that’s his motive!”

“Does it seem plausible to you?”

She looked thoughtful. “If the trust comes to him on her death, perhaps. If she’d been married, I suppose it would go to her husband. Not married, it isn’t really hers, is it? Who’s the trustee?”

“The same man who owns the rest of the stock. Nathan Jessop.”

“He’s a distant cousin, Charlie says. When he had to raise some money to pay off some debt, he wanted the company to stay in the family. Jessop was willing, and had the money to invest. I don’t think it’s been a very good investment, to be honest, but the company won’t fold.”

“I’ll ask,” I said. “Mr Jessop has no reason to confide in me. Your nephew may not wish to either, but if it means he can be eliminated as a suspect, he may cooperate.”

“Look, Charlie wouldn’t kill anybody.” She made a wry face. “Too squeamish. And he doesn’t have the kind of money to hire an assassin. He’s not a terrible guy. Just pompous. He thought Mary was tarnishing the family name. Sort of pretentious of him to think there was anything much to tarnish.”

“An error pretentious arses often make. Whatever they think they’re protecting, it’s not nearly as important as they believe.”

Thanking her for her time, I left.

I returned to Baker Street to find Mrs Hudson puzzling over a rather large, flat package. “It was delivered a few minutes ago,” she said. “What do you suppose it is?”

It was not heavy, but a bit awkward to hold. “Let’s take it upstairs and see,” I said.

Once it was resting on my sofa, I studied the box. It was about three feet by four feet, and six inches deep, probably to allow for packing material. The box had no markings on it other than my address. No name. I picked it up again, looking around the edges.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” said Mrs Hudson. “Christmas morning must have been a very long ordeal at your house. Can’t you simply open it and see what’s inside? The suspense is killing me!”

“What do you think it is?” I smiled. “You’re good at deducing things, Mrs H. What does it look like?”

“It’s obviously a painting,” she said. “And since you have been mingling with the bohemian classes, I suppose it was painted by someone we know. Miss Pugh, perhaps.”

“Very good. Anything else?” I opened my pocket knife and slit the shortest, narrowest side.

“It doesn’t say who sent it. The delivery man didn’t know, but said it had been dropped off by a lady.”

“A lady would not carry such a large package by herself. She would have had someone to help her. Miss Pugh does not ask for masculine help. My guess is that it’s from Miss Adler.”

I slid the box’s contents out through the side, removed the paper covering what was obviously a large portrait.

“Why, it’s Miss Morstan!” Mrs Hudson put on her spectacles to get a better look. “There’s no artist signature.”

“It was painted by Bertie Pugh.” I pointed out the initials in the bottom corner.

I lifted the telephone and dialled Sir Toby’s home number. “Sherlock Holmes here. Is he at home? Yes, I’ll— Sir Toby, good evening! We need to have a pow-wow. You, me, Mycroft. Mr Pierce must come too, I suppose. How about Thursday evening, eight o’clock? Yes, I think I’ll have everything I need by then. Right. See you then.”

“You’ve solved it?” Mrs Hudson asked when I’d hung up.

“Cautiously optimistic, Mrs H,” I said, grabbing her in a hug. “Now I know who to talk to, and what I need to ask.”

“What told you that?”

I nodded at the portrait. “She did.”


	13. Thirteen

I had once commented that Irene Adler had a face that men would die for. Mary Morstan did not have such a face. Hers had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion. Nevertheless, there was something compelling about the face that looked out of that portrait. Her large, blue eyes were almost spiritual, though not innocent. Her smile was knowing, intentionally teasing, but not overtly seductive. She was, I decided, a woman men would kill for. McFee had said that, but I had only seen photographs of her, never met the woman. This portrait, however, did what a photograph could not do.

Bertie Pugh had painted her in a dress unlike any I’d seen in her wardrobe— high-necked, lace-trimmed, small pearl buttons all the way up. Her fair hair was long, piled up in a Victorian style, with strands escaping. Her hands were clasped demurely in her lap.

“Why did she paint her like that— so old-fashioned?” Mrs Hudson asked. “She looks like a Gibson girl.”

“A photograph might show what a person looks like, but this tells me much more. A painter’s eye sees more than what the camera sees; she cannot help but show her attitude toward the subject. In her mind, this is how Bertie Pugh saw Mary Morstan.”

“As a Victorian lady?”

“A Victorian lady is an angel, a woman constrained by men’s expectations, a chaste, modest—“

“But she wasn’t any of that, Mr Holmes!”

“Miss Pugh was in love with her,” I replied. “Mary might have seemed independent, liberated from expectations like those, but she was just as much a slave to men as any Victorian lady. At least, that’s how Miss Pugh saw her. A woman who needed a man to complete herself. A woman who depended on her brother for an allowance, and had to marry in order to receive the money her father left her. A woman who’d been let down by so many men that she’d adopted the strategy of rejecting them before they could hurt her. In short: a tragic heroine.”

Mrs Hudson adjusted her glasses and peered at the portrait again. “She does have a rather come-hither look. So, this tells you Miss Pugh was in love with her?”

“This portrait is a love poem,” I said. “ _That love is weak where fear’s as strong as he; ‘Tis not all spirit, pure and brave, If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have—_ well, it tells me two things. She was in love with Mary, and Mary knew it, but did not return her feelings. She rationalises this to herself by seeing Mary as a tragic figure, a woman unable to seek the love that would complete her because she is unable to break the strictures of society. Others fall in love with her, but she cannot love them. A miserable state, to be sure.”

She nodded. “I’ve always thought Mr Donne had a way of expressing painful thoughts that made them seem beautiful. But you can’t think that Miss Pugh would kill the object of her affection!”

“No, I don’t believe that, but I do believe that she might try to change the narrative of her death. Which is why I must talk to her at once.”

“It’s late, dear. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

I glanced at the clock. After midnight. “She has irregular hours, but I suppose it would be presumptuous to call so late. I’ll visit Charles Morstan first thing in the morning, and then head over to see Miss Pugh. Thinking will give me time to plan my approach, rather than just bumbling ahead and blurting things out. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. I must be careful how I deal with these two.”

“Sleep on it,” Mrs Hudson said. “I’ll bring some breakfast up at eight.” She paused, turning at the door and winking at me. “Just this once, dear.”

I woke up ready to do battle with my suspects. Fortified by breakfast, I headed to Charles Morstan’s house on Asbury Drive, prepared to have the door slammed in my face.

It was a fairly large, modern house in a neighbourhood that appeared quite new, not like Baker Street, where the buildings had begun to show their age. These houses were set back from the street, each with a fenced yard. Morstan’s had a redbrick front with white trim, bay windows on both floors. An expensive home in an upscale neighbourhood.

The door was opened by a young maid wearing an expression of distress. When I asked for her master, she wrung her hands nervously and said she would check to see if he was available.

I waited in the vestibule. The rooms I peeked into were painted dark rose or green and hung with gilt-framed paintings. Charles Morstan cared about appearances; if I hadn’t met the man, I would say this house belonged to an upper-middle class man with poor taste in art. I was studying a fake Ming vase when the master of the house came down the stairway.

“Mr Holmes,” he said, giving me a small bow of recognition. “How can I help you?” His demeanour was formal, but less arrogant, certainly less angry than the day I met him in his office. He looked defeated, I thought.

“I paid a call on Mrs Franklin Morstan yesterday.” I waited for his reaction.

He sighed. “I was rude to you the other day,” he said. “For that I apologise. I should have predicted that you would begin putting the pieces together. Please.” He gestured towards a door to my right. I entered a sitting room appointed with fake oriental art and paintings representing mythological subjects, a cultural mix that made me cringe.

He took a bottle from the sideboard and poured a finger of amber liquid into two glasses. Offering one to me, he said, “Please. I know it’s early, but I need a drink, and suppose that you could use one as well.”

“Thank you. I apologise for my intrusion,” I said, mollified by his attitude, so different from what I’d observed.

He took a swallow of his drink, grimaced, and shook his head. “You have a gift, I am told, for reading people. Let me be honest, then. I am discomfited, and not by your visit. My wife has only this morning indicated her intention to leave me. She is packing her bags as we speak, or I would introduce you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If my business could be delayed, I would leave you now. But I cannot postpone my investigation when in a few days John Watson will go on trial again.”

He indicated that we should both sit. “How can I help you?”

I settled into a rather uncomfortable looking chair. “Tell me about the trust. Who benefits, now that your sister is deceased?”

“I do, though it’s not as much as you might suppose.” He gave a short laugh. “Our father was quite old-fashioned, especially when it came to women. What he would have made of Mary, I shudder to think.”

“How much was the dowry?”

“Enough to see her settled, nothing more. My father expected her to marry and be supported by her husband, like a normal woman. A dowry should not be large, he thought, lest a potential husband be tempted to live off her property. He was known for his stinginess. I suppose that’s why he died with such a pile of money. The most valuable asset in the trust is the house in Mayfair, where she lived. I will likely give that to my wife now, as a settlement, if she wants it. This house must be sold.” He looked around the room, shaking his head. “Eleanor is not happy about that, but the mortgage is too much. As for me, my aunt has generously offered me a salary to manage the company.” He sank his head into his hand. “Dear lord, what my father would think of me.”

“The house in Mayfair, you said. Anything else?”

“There were also some small holdings in the trust that generate a bit of income. Why do you ask?”

I cleared my throat. “What I am trying to prove is that John Watson did not kill your sister. In order to do that, it would help if another person had a reasonable motive. You have an alibi, but murders can be arranged.”

“You think I would kill Mary?” He ran a hand though his thinning hair. “Certainly not for the trust, which was meant only as a way for her to buy her way into a good marriage, not support herself for life.”

“John Watson didn’t earn enough to be worth marrying. Did you forbid her to marry him?”

He set down his glass. “I did not. In fact, I encouraged her to marry him.”

“Encouraged?”

His smile was bitter. “Since you apparently know about my financial stumbles, I will be honest. Mary had no money sense. Obviously, I am not much better. When I lost control of the company, I hoped the trust would help to support her. She had no intention of quitting her writing career, penning those awful detective romances, so she would have that income, as long as it lasted. She didn’t have a long attention span, so I expected her to be off on some other enterprise soon. And she would have the house. Her book income might be enough to tempt some men, but I didn’t want her to depend entirely on some gigolo.”

“You thought Watson was leaching off her?”

He sighed. “He wasn’t as bad as his predecessors. He at least had a career of his own, and he was a responsible enough fellow to make sure they didn’t live in poverty. And I don’t believe he would ever harm her. He seemed quite sincere, I thought, the few times I met him. He was the best of a bad lot, and I thought it better to see my sister secure with a man who would take care of her than with someone worse. I told her what was coming to her and the conditions whereby she could receive it. She said she would think about it. I didn’t know that she’d proposed to him.”

“But you needed money badly, and that money is now yours. You can see how this might arouse suspicion.”

“In some respects, we are all victims of Mary.” He closed his eyes. “I loved my sister, Mr Holmes. I am saddened at her death. She burned the candle at both ends because she loved the light. Eventually she would have paid a price for that, and some may say that she has. She did not deserve to die like that, though. The money does not compensate for the loss of my sister. And I will not use her death to undo my own problems. I alone am responsible for those.”

“She would want her killer found,” I said. “And I believe she loved Dr Watson. That her death might cause his—“

“That is why,” he said, raising a hand, “I have liquidated the properties and used the proceeds to pay for his defence. It was only a few hundred pounds, not enough to solve any of my problems.”

I was too astonished to speak for a moment. “You? You are paying his attorneys?”

“I owe her that. I am attempting to _make good,_ as they say, to atone for my mistakes. My cousin Jessop called on me when he heard about Mary and asked what I wanted done with the properties. We discussed it, and that is what was decided. He has taken care of it, with my approval.” He smiled grimly. “I realise that paying for his defence does not entirely put me out of suspicion. Do what you must, Mr Holmes. I asked the firm to keep my contribution a secret so that I would not appear to be paying anyone off. Only one person at the firm knows, and he was not part of the team that defended Watson. If you’d like a statement showing the trust’s value, I can give you that, as well as documentation of my own debts. I’ll have them sent to Mr Pierce.”

I digested this, dismayed at how my initial impression of the man was shaped by circumstances I did not know about. As I had thought, money had much to do with Charles Morstan’s attitude and behaviour. In the end, though, he seemed to realise where that had led him. “I would not have invaded your privacy about this if there had been another way.”

“You are just doing your job,” he said. “I’m not sure I can afford your fee, but I will make arrangements to pay you something for your time.”

“I’m not working for a fee, Mr Morstan. I made that clear to Mr Pierce.” I stood and held out my hand. “Thank you for your time. I am sorry for your loss.”

He rose and clasped my hand briefly. “Find him, whoever did this. Mary would be disappointed in us all if we do not solve it.”

I caught a cab to Mayfair. That Charles Morstan was paying for Watson’s defence did not rule him out, but it seemed highly unlikely that a man who was losing most of what he owned would kill his sister for a house and a few hundred pounds. With limited time to work things out, I would have to press Bertie Pugh. I would call Mr Pierce later to see what Morstan’s financial statements said, but at the moment, my theory about Miss Pugh’s involvement seemed more plausible.

I was on her doorstep by half ten.

“Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’m making tea. You’ll have a cup, won’t you?”

“Thank you.” At her invitation, I took the only seat in the small kitchen. Her back was to me as she filled the kettle and lit the burner. “I saw the portrait.”

“Portrait.” She turned, frowning.

“Of Mary.”

She huffed. “Irene showed it to you.”

“Why did you give it to her?”

“I don’t keep many of my pieces, as I’ve told you. Irene wanted it, so I let her take it.”

“That painting told me something. Several things, in fact.”

She was silent, looking away, no doubt trying to assess her options. “What do you want to know?”

“You loved her.”

“I don’t deny that.”

“Of course you don’t. You deny very little. You just omit some very important details which might send an innocent man to the gallows.”

“Such as?”

She wasn’t going to make this easy for me, I decided. “There was a note,” I said.

Quickly she turned towards me, frowning. “A note? What note?”

“That’s what people do when they take their own lives. They leave a note, explaining. She was a writer, so of course she wrote a note.”

I watched her face. A flicker of something, I thought, but she did not pause. “She didn’t kill herself.”

I continued. “You didn’t want her to have done it, but that’s what happened. You found her in the morning, and destroyed the evidence that she’d committed suicide— the drug, the syringe, and the note.”

She set a chipped mug before me. “There was no note. It was just as I described to you the last time we talked.” Her voice was clipped, angry.

“I’m curious. Did you keep it? Lovely memento, I should think. What did it say? _Life means nothing now that he’s left me—“_

“Stop it. There wasn’t any note. Why must you be morbid?”

“I solve murders, which exposes me to a lot of morbidity. I suppose that has made me a bit cold-blooded about details. You didn’t hear the floor creak, did you? You were trying to set me up to think someone was there, keep me chasing my tail.”

She sat on the stool, the tea forgotten. “I did hear it creak, but I said it wasn’t unusual. Old buildings make noises. I didn’t go up to see; I just roused when I heard the creak. If you wish to attribute meaning to it, I can’t dissuade you. I wasn’t setting up anything.”

“Here’s where the story gets interesting,” I went on. “You found her, read the note, saw the syringe, and knew that she’d taken her own life. That was unacceptable— such a vibrant, spirited woman would never do that. Certainly not over a man. She may have rejected you, but what you found admirable was that she treated everyone like supporting actors in her story, every one of them disposable when she grew tired of them. That was who you wanted her to be— not a sad woman who can’t live without a man. But the portrait showed me something else. You have an artist’s eye, Miss Pugh. You see what others miss. I realised that when I saw the little sketch you did of me. And when I looked at the portrait, I knew what you saw in Mary. She wasn’t really free; _you_ wanted to free her.”

“You didn’t know her, Mr Holmes— and you don’t know the first thing about what women want. But carry on,” she said bitterly. “Explain to me why I would conceal evidence.”

“You concealed it because you couldn’t accept what she’d done. And then you realised that someone must be blamed. You’d seen Doctor Watson arrive at half nine, heard them argue. He was the perfect suspect, and you didn’t have to do anything but get rid of the evidence of what really happened. And there was a kind of poetic justice to it, wasn’t there? The man who took her from you, who didn’t understand what a treasure he possessed, even as he flaunted it in your face—“

Her face was livid. “If he killed her, he deserves to hang. You were at the trial— you’ve seen the evidence. If he didn’t do it, who did?”

“The evidence points to suicide,” I said. “All that’s lacking is what you’ve concealed. I’m begging you to give it up. Tampering with evidence is a serious crime, not to mention lying under oath. I understand that you’re unwilling to face the consequences, but I can make sure that you’re given a fair shake.”

She was silent for a moment, clenching and unclenching her fists. “I don’t know how else to say this, Mr Holmes. I did not lie, I did not destroy any evidence. Why would I want her to be a victim? You think of suicide as an act of weakness, the deed of a coward. It isn’t. I would rather believe that she had taken her own life, than see it taken by a man who pretended to love her. If there had been a note, I would not have hidden it. She was murdered.”

Her argument was logical, and it was surprising how few tells she gave. “What disturbs me,” I replied, “is not merely that you are too much of a coward to face the consequences, but that you’re willing to let an innocent man go to the gallows.”

“You’re as big a fool as I am,” she said, frowning. “You accuse me of being misguided by love, but you are guilty of the very same thing. I have eyes, Mr Holmes. You love him. Let me tell you something about Doctor Watson. He is a man who has no feelings. He broke Mary’s heart, he broke Andy’s heart, and he walked away from it all like it was nothing.”

“Andy— Farrell? What’s he got to do with it?”

“He loved Watson. Maybe _love_ is too strong a word. He pined after the man. Mary encouraged it because she wanted to see— well, she was a bit twisted like that. It gave her a power over men that she enjoyed. Watson was willing, but afterwards he told him, _I’m not a pervert._ Do you remember what Andy said on the stand? He called Watson a _cool character_. That was a nice way of saying he’s a bastard.”

I said nothing. At Moran’s party, Farrell had admitted what was between them. I’d believed it, but hadn’t seen what was behind it.

“You and Farrell are friends,” I said. “Have you any reason to think he was in Mary’s flat that evening?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” she said, shaking her head. “He hasn’t the makings of a murderer, though. He’s a sneak, but too cowardly to do something like that.”

“One thing I am sure of, Miss Pugh, is that we never really know what a person is capable of. Opportunity creates some improbable scenarios, many of them murder scenes.”

She nodded. “What Irene said on the stand is true. Mary was the least desperate person I’ve known. It wasn’t suicide, and I’m not saying that just because I think it would be out of character. I did not remove anything. Give me a stack of Bibles and I will swear to that. Somebody killed her, Mr Holmes. I hope you’ll find that person.”

“I will, Miss Pugh. You can count on it.”

For the second time in a day, one of my suspects had urged me to find the killer. I didn’t want to believe Bertie Pugh, but nothing had shaken her. I have observed many witnesses in my experience of solving crimes, and I know the many small gestures and expressions that reveal that someone is lying. Bertie sincerely believed that Watson had done it.

For me to prove his innocence, I would have to find out who else was in the flat that evening.

Farrell was a man who was already concealing much, a secretive man who despised his own _inauthenticity_. He had revealed his inversion to me at Moran’s party, and I believed what he told me about Watson. That didn’t mean he wasn’t lying about other things.

And he had a motive to kill Mary, though it was a rather shaky one. He’d praised Mary’s anti-literary writing, while resenting her success. He had wanted Watson, might have even propositioned him after he left Mary, if Miss Pettigrew from the clinic was right. I had solved murders committed for less. But if he had truly cared about Watson, would he be willing to see him die? Vindictive, of course. Perhaps he’d flirted with me to distract me from deducing him. He might have even slipped something in my drink in order to seduce me. I preferred to think that was Moriarty, but it wasn’t impossible.

I’d thought that money was the thread running through this story, but I might have been wrong about that. Sentiment motivates the most irrational, poorly planned actions. In order to solve the case, I had tried (unsuccessfully) to eliminate my own feelings about Watson; Farrell might not have been able to override his. He might have killed Mary out of jealousy, resentment, vindictiveness.

What was more likely, and much more horrifying, was the possibility that it was an accident.

He no doubt knew where to get the drug that had killed her. She was distraught that evening. What if he had returned from his mother’s and brought her the morphine? Not knowing that Watson had already injected her, he might have given her too much. Or perhaps she injected herself in a moment of existential angst. When he realised what had happened, and his own liability (criminal negligence for supplying the drug), he might have hidden the evidence rather than face charges. Cowardly, he left Watson to take the blame.

This was all pure hypothesis, though. There was no note, no physical evidence of any kind to say what had happened. If I’d been called in when the crime scene was still uncontaminated, I might have found something. At this point, all I had was speculation.

I needed to talk to Irene, convince her to stop hinting at things and give me something I could use. I was sure she knew more than what she was saying. When I got back to Baker Street, I tried to ring her. The woman who answered her telephone said she’d gone out. I left a message for her to call me.

Mrs Hudson was baking something that smelled wonderful, spicy and sweet. An apple cake, I divined. Feeling suddenly ravenous, I wandered down to her door and knocked. It was open a crack already, which told me that she was trying to lure me downstairs.

“The cake will be out in ten minutes,” she said, dusting flour from her hands. “You look gloomy, love.”

“I am gloomy. My powers of observation and analysis are letting me down. And I’m being obvious, not my usual mode at all. Tell me the truth, Mrs H. Do I look lovelorn? Is my heart on my sleeve, or somewhere else equally conspicuous?”

She planted a kiss on my brow. “Love is hard to hide, my dear. You can’t just put a disguise on and pretend you’re not in love.”

I sighed. I suppose it was a lovelorn sigh. “I remember swearing off romance, deciding it was liable to bias my judgment. How right I was! Exactly as I predicted, it’s jammed my mental gears, made my true, cold reason all warm and fuzzy. I talk to all these people, and I lose focus. What my brother told me years ago, after Victor, is true: _sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”_

“Now, Sherlock, you know that’s not true. Love is never wasted, even when we lose.”

“I should have solved this by now, Mrs Hudson. I have always said that if you just eliminate the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must be the truth. But nothing seems impossible here. I can’t rule anyone out, not entirely. They could all be lying. I’m weighing one person’s word against another’s. It’s all impressions, and feelings, and—”

“There, there. This case has been a lot of talking and listening,” she said, setting a cup in front of me. “Much harder than analysing soil samples and blood stains. There’s no blood in this one, no footprints in the garden or mud on the suspect’s boots. Here we have only people and their words. Not much science.”

“I suppose you’re right. I prefer science. When this is all over, I’m going to give up the detective business and keep bees. Much less stressful. You know, there’s a fellow in California who’s come up with a device that measures changes in breathing, blood pressure, and heart rate, the theory being that when people lie, they are experiencing stress, which makes these rates go up. I’d like to have a device like that. It would be brilliant to know who’s lying.”

She smiled. “I thought your family motto was _Everyone Lies._ Though I tend to agree that people frequently lie, it’s usually about things that don’t matter. It’s much harder to lie about something important.”

“Bertie Pugh may be lying about something important. But it’s not as if I can use my gut feeling about it as evidence.” Even the idea that I was following my feelings, rather than reason, was embarrassing. “I did my best to persuade her, reminding her of the penalties for tampering with evidence and lying under oath. She wouldn’t budge. And I remember her eyes when I asked her who killed Mary. She said, _Watson_ with such venom that I was sure she believed it.”

“She doesn’t seem like a devious woman to me,” Mrs Hudson responded.

“Why do you say that?”

Mrs Hudson looked thoughtful for a moment before she replied. “A woman who deliberately avoids feminine wiles and is defiantly un-pretty must prize honesty above beauty. I believe her artist’s eye won’t let her lie about such things. When she sketched you, she could have made you more handsome, but she showed you as you are.”

“Tell me what you think, Mrs H. Is suicide an act of cowardice?”

“It depends on the reason for wanting to kill oneself,” she said. “If a person is in pain— and there are many kinds of pain— it might be understandable. Or to protect someone else, perhaps. Other than that, a person should get on with living, however miserable their lot. I’ve lived through some difficult times, as you know.”

“I know you have. This is why I ask. Miss Pugh said that she would rather have seen Mary dead by her own hand than killed by Watson, who pretended to love her. Do you think she was being honest?”

Mrs Hudson sat silent for a moment. “Yes, I do.” Her eyes were wet. “Sherlock, you know I love you like a son. When you were—when you were taking all those drugs and risking your life on the streets…” She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. A tear slid down her cheek.

“Mrs Hudson,” I said. “I’m sorry I caused you so much pain.”

She sniffed and patted my hand. “I was thinking about what I felt back then. I worried that you might overdose. Or that you would decide you couldn’t go on, and that your only recourse was to take your own life. I didn’t like leaving you alone in the flat, which was why I was always bringing up tea and scones and nattering on about nonsense.” She was silent, her eyes closed.

“I remember,” I said. “And every time you did, I was grateful. You kept me from despair.”

“I’m glad, Sherlock.”Sighing, she opened her eyes andtook my hand in hers. “But if you’d gone out into those streets and been shot by someone, that would have been much worse. I could have forgiven you for the drugs, knowing all you were going through. I could not have forgiven someone else for taking you from me.”

We sat in silence for a long minute. “My dear Martha,” I said at last. “I will never do that to myself. I could not do such a thing, knowing how it would hurt you.”

“It would hurt many of us,” she said. “Your mother, your brother— though he doesn’t always show it, he does love you. Mr Lestrade would miss you—“ She smiled through her tears. “You have touched many, many people’s lives, and a lovely life lies ahead of you. You will save innocent people, and you will find someone to love.”

Now my eyes were tearing up. I was silent until I could regain my voice. “All right. Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that she is telling the truth: there was no note, no syringe, and she truly believes Watson did it. Well, for us to believe he did it would defeat our entire purpose, so we won’t change our minds about that. There was no note, and Watson did not kill her. If we suppose this is true, someone else killed Mary.”

“Who’s left? Charles Morstan?”

“I’m afraid I’m ready to cross him off as well. Reluctantly, but there doesn’t seem any reason to pursue him now. He didn’t really have much to gain from her death. Unless he is the most cunning liar that ever lived, he didn’t do it.”

“You talked to him?”

“I paid a call on him, before I went to see Miss Pugh. He was having a bad moment when I arrived, but laid it all out for me. The property held in trust came to him on Mary’s death, but it isn’t much. I suppose old Morstan thought it would be enough to get his daughter married, and then he’d see how the husband worked out before investing more in their union. Charles admitted he’d done a terrible job with the company’s finances, but he’s not using the trust monies on himself. His wife is divorcing him and will get the house Mary lived in. The remaining properties have been sold and the proceeds spent. Can you guess what he used them for?”

“Well, I hope he’s learned his lesson and won’t throw money into another speculative venture. Maybe he has debts?”

“Plenty, but no, he’s not using it to pay off his debts. It’s what his sister would have wanted: he’s paying for Watson’s defence.”

“Really!” she said. The timer chimed and she rose to check her cake. “Perhaps I’ll have to stop disliking him so intensely.”

“I’ll need to call Mr Pierce and ask him to verify it, but I believe him. What devious person leaves private documents all over his desk? I can’t imagine he would lie about something so easily checked. He looked rather bent out of shape about the whole thing, but he doesn’t dislike Watson as much as you might think. Apparently, there were worse candidates before.”

“Then it’s not Miss Pugh, nor Mr Morstan. What about Mr Moriarty?”

“Hush, woman. The man is a spider, sitting unnoticed in the middle of a web. The very mention of his name is dangerous. Are you cutting that cake soon?”

“It has to rest for ten minutes. I wonder what happened to the manuscript. I still think it’s a rather flimsy motive for murder, but it would be interesting to read it.”

“Moriarty said it doesn’t exist. Irene would neither confirm nor deny,” I replied. “Which agrees with what McFee said. And Watson told me that he didn’t believe she’d written a word, but he’d been out of the house for over a month, which would have given her time to write something. I’m afraid that clue consists of thin air. I wanted to see something suspicious about the man— well, everything about him reeks of shady doings. But I’m not sure he would bother killing her. She was beneath his contempt, I think. If the manuscript exists, someone must know about it and is concealing it.”

“Maybe Miss Adler knows. She’s very clever. And devious, too.”

I eyed the cake impatiently. “She was terrified when we left Moran’s party. I’ve never seen her like that. She said something to me that I can’t figure out: _People hide what they most value. But they keep it close_.”

“You think Miss Morstan hid her manuscript?” Mrs Hudson asked. “But wouldn’t her agent have known about it? If she told anyone, she must have told him.”

“Irene was reminding me of a trick I used to discover the location of a photograph my client wanted back. Her words the other night imply that someone— maybe me— has something hidden which will help to solve this.”

“What do you value?” Mrs Hudson was finally slicing the cake. “Perhaps that’s what she meant.”

“I don’t hide things. You know that— everything I own is scattered in plain sight all over my flat. I don’t put things away, much less hide them.”

“You used to hide things,” she reminded me. “After you cleaned yourself up, Mycroft used to come by sometimes and look through your things. He seemed to think you might have drugs hidden in the flat. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, and I did agree, in principle, that a drug addict can’t be trusted to look after his own best interests, which was why I never said anything— ”

I stopped, stunned at my own slowness. Then I jumped up from the table, ran out of her flat and started up the stairs, two at a time. “You’re a genius!” I called from the landing.

I heard her call after me, “You don’t want cake?”


	14. Fourteen

Under my bed, there is a loose floorboard that you would only notice if you were looking for it. Underneath, if you were to lift it, you would find a morocco case in which was stored a syringe. I hadn’t thought about it for years, not since my brother threatened me into sobriety.

I have no idea how Irene knew. She is _the_ woman, as far as I am concerned. If she needed a place to hide something, she might have broken into my rooms, just as I had broken into hers a few years back to find something. It seemed fitting, payback for the one time I outsmarted her.

As I pried the board up (it came easily, in spite of the years), I saw it. A cardboard box, just like those I’d seen containing manuscripts at McFee’s. I lifted the top and found what I was looking for. The cover sheet read: _The Shameful Affair of the Shady Sheikh._

Mrs Hudson delivered several pieces of cake, and some sandwiches, and even a pot of tea, and I began to read. The story seemed to move along more quickly than the other ones I’d read in the series, but that may have been because I was looking for clues this time.

I looked for, and found, a character who might have been meant to represent Moriarty, the title _shady sheikh._ Nevil Hayden. The name was chosen, I supposed, to echo _evil_ and _Hades._ A rather obvious clue. (Writers ought to ask me to name their villains.) He was a club owner, a crime lord with a rather silly distribution scheme for his drugs, one which I am sure a real dope dealer would never dream of using. Readers would love it, though. It involved a newspaperman who used a secret code in his column each week to publish the distribution point, a different pub each time. Lestrade had many ideas about how Moriarty’s enterprise worked, but nothing like this. It was a clever idea, and made for an interesting story, but not practical. If Moriarty had read this, he would have laughed. I unraveled it in the first chapter.

I can see why she was struggling with this one. She seemed to get caught in the details of the scheme, with endless conversations between the characters that seemed to exist only to enlighten the reader about things the characters already knew. It felt contrived, weighted down with a too technical plot. If Mary Morstan had any talent as a writer, it was capturing the world she put her characters in— jazz clubs, bohemian flats, gin, dope, wild parties— the world her readers loved to imagine themselves in. Her personal life, as detailed in the society pages, was no small part of her success. She was the best advertisement for her books.

But there was none of that madcap life here. She had written something out of character, and I wondered if it was simply for petty revenge against Moriarty. Whatever grudge she had against him, it could not be cleverly worked out in this story. It was almost as if Moriarty himself had thwarted her through the character of Nevil Hayden, who might be the most pasteboard villain ever invented.

What I found myself more invested in was the romance. Diana and Arthur were quarrelling often, he threatening to leave, and she daring him. Towards the end of the story he was kidnapped, and Diana was setting out to look for him, determined to take revenge on anyone who hurt him.

And that was where the manuscript ended.

“No!” I cried out so loudly that Mrs Hudson hurried up the steps to see if I was all right. I began to explain. “It’s Arthur— He’s been—“

She stuck her fingers in her ears. “Stop! Don’t spoil it for me!”

I promised I would give no more details, and she cautiously removed her fingers. “It’s not finished,” I said. “She hadn’t written the ending when she died.”

“Is this the book that killed its author?” she asked.

“No.” I said this with certainty. “There is nothing here that Moriarty could care about, nothing to accuse him. I don’t believe she knew anything about his operations. Perhaps she was just trying to raise interest, hinting at it.”

“Well, it sounds like a publicity stunt gone wrong.”

I laid the manuscript back in the box. “I’m not even sure this story will sell, not as it’s written. It’s a very rough first draft. McFee will have to hire a ghostwriter to fix it and write the ending. I’m sure he intends to push it out. It’ll sell, however bad it is. Shame, though.”

“Why did Irene have it?”

“She was struggling to write. I’m guessing that even looking at the pages she’d written made her angry and depressed, knowing that it wasn’t to her usual standards. She gave it to Irene to get it out of her sight. Maybe she planned to start over, or write something else.”

She put her hands on her hips. “What’s your theory, then? If it’s not Moriarty, who’s left?”

“If I have to lay a bet, my money is on Farrell,” I said. “It is possible that he accidentally overdosed her and took the evidence so he wouldn’t be implicated. And he let Watson take the blame because he’d been rejected by him.”

“What about his alibi?”

“His mother? What mother wouldn’t lie to protect her son? I’ll pay her a visit and get the truth.”

Someone began ringing the bell, and Mrs Hudson went to answer it. In a moment she called up the stairs, “Telegram, Mr Holmes!”

I ran down the stairs so she wouldn’t have to come back up.

“It’s from Irene,” I said, opening the envelope. “She asks me to meet her at the Church of St Monica in the Edgeware Road at noon tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think the lady attended church,” Mrs Hudson said a bit sharply.

“Nor do I, when I can help it,” I replied. “Perhaps she has something to confess.”

With only two days left, I went looking for Andrew Farrell in the morning. His landlady told me he’d gone to see his mother. She lived in Epping, I remembered. He hadn’t said when he’d be back.

I stopped at the Bolshevist. Yuri let me in when he saw it was me. He made us some strong coffee, offered me a shot of whisky in mine (I refused), added one to his own. We sat at his kitchen table and I explained my errand.

“I haven’t seen him,” Yuri said. “He’s usually a regular, but for the last week he’s been missing. Not that anyone here would notice. I suppose he’s working on some play.”

“He’s an odd fellow,” I said.

Yuri shrugged. “Everyone who comes here is odd. Even you.”

“I admit my oddness,” I replied. “I prefer to call myself eccentric, though. Look, I know you keep that sort of thing out of here, but is he a doper?”

Another shrug. “I suppose so. I went to one of his plays once. It seemed like the kind of thing someone on dope would write.”

“What can you tell me about him and Watson? Were they ever…”

“If I get your drift, you want to know if they did queer things together.”

“Did you notice anything like that— on either side?”

“Andy’s flirtatious with any good-looking man. Watson always stuck close to Mary. If he was queer, I never saw it.”

“Did you ever see Andy do anything vindictive?”

“You mean, was he jealous?” He scratched his head. “He looked at Watson a lot.”

“Looked at him how?”

“The way you’d look at a man if you thought he was handsome, I suppose.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t say he was jealous, just occupied. Andy is a bit desperate sometimes.”

“In what way?”

“He’s a hanger-on. Attaches himself to people and clings a bit too hard. Mary used to play on that. Well, she played a lot of men. Drove Watson crazy, I think. But it wasn’t like that with Andy.” He snorted a laugh. “Watson had no reason to be jealous of him. Andy was more like a girlfriend than a boyfriend. Mary recognised that he was needy, and when she was in the mood to be generous, she encouraged it. He wouldn’t have killed her, if you’re thinking in that direction. They needed each other.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against her?”

Yuri rubbed his hand through his hair and frowned. “I don’t know. She could be pretty sarcastic at time, charming at others. She flirted a lot, but you don’t take up with a girl like Mary and expect her complete devotion unless you’re a fool. She didn’t have anything worth murder.”

“What about Watson? Do you know of anyone who had it in for him?”

“Not at all. We talked a couple times. A bit shell-shocked, if you want my opinion. A quiet fellow, but you can see, underneath, that he’s never quite come home from the war.”

“He’s admitted to having a temper. Did you ever see that?”

“I didn’t. He put up with a lot from Mary, but they didn’t fight here.”

I checked my watch. “Look, if anything comes to mind— concerning what we’ve talked about— give me a call. Here’s my card.”

Irene was waiting for me when I climbed out of my cab in front of Saint Monica’s Church. I almost didn’t recognise her, as she was wearing a somber grey dress of silk with a church-appropriate neckline, a black wool coat, and a little black hat with a net veil that covered her face. Seeing me, she took my hand and drew me into the church. We sat in the back pew.

“I found it,” I said. “And I read it.”

She nodded, looking a bit distracted. “I thought you might.”

“It doesn’t appear to me that the professor has anything to worry about. Has he even seen it?”

“No. It was a silly quarrel she had with him. We were at the Pythagoras, Mary and I. This was after Watson left. Mary was as she always was, only more satirical than usual. She was a bit drunk, and taking no prisoners. Moriarty had joined our table that night. Nobody else you would know, just indolent rich types. They were boring, so Mary decided to train her wit on him. He's a silent man, most of the time, but certainly not a man who likes to be laughed at.

“It wasn't anything specific she said. The others were laughing, and Moriarty was giving her that Cheshire smile, but didn't speak. I realised that he was annoyed, but I don't believe anyone else noticed, or knew what his silence meant. She said she was looking for a new villain for her next book, and that she might model him after Moriarty, but if she did, it would be no mystery who’d done it. The others found this amusing. Afterwards, I told her it was a mistake, that she really didn't want him as an enemy. But she didn't care. She had lost Watson and felt annoyed at life in general.”

I shook my head. “But the villain she wrote in the book wasn’t identifiably Moriarty. And if he thought she hadn’t written it, why would he care?”

“He would care because people heard her insult him. People laughed, and he will not be laughed at. He’s vindictive.”

The door opened and I heard footsteps in the narthex.

“I have a favour to ask of you.” She sounded hesitant, which made me study her face more closely. She seemed nervous, biting her lip a bit and shifting her gaze around. This was a new look for her.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m leaving London, moving to New York.”

“Is he threatening you? That night of the party, you seemed afraid.”

“He does not like intelligent women, Mr Holmes. And I have gotten myself more deeply involved in his concerns than I should have.”

“That’s why you’re leaving? You’re afraid of Moriarty?”

“Hush.” She stood, smiling, as someone came into the nave.

Rising, I turned to see a man, dark and handsome, with aquiline features and a thin moustache. He nodded at me, and smiled at Irene.

She kissed him, then turned to me. “Mr Holmes, this is Godfrey Norton of New York. We’re getting married, and I’d like you to be our witness.”

Speechless, I followed them to the altar, where a clergyman was lighting the candles. He turned and beamed at us, opened his book, and the tying up of the couple was completed in three minutes. I repeated the responses as prompted, vouched for things of which I knew nothing, and thought I’d never found myself in a more preposterous position in my life.

Mr Norton shook my hand and thanked me profusely, Irene gave me a sovereign, saying she was sure I’d want a souvenir of such an improbable occasion, and they headed towards the cab that was waiting.

“Wait,” I said.

Irene turned, smiling. She truly looked beautiful, not because of her dress or her hair, or anything else that women fuss over, but because she was a woman in love. “Thank you,” she said.

“You said I had everything I needed to solve it. What am I missing?”

“You have eliminated the impossible,” she said. “What remains?”

“I think Bertie’s telling the truth. The brother didn’t do it. And she couldn’t have killed herself.”

“No, she I don’t believe she did.”

“What does Farrell have to do with this?”

She leaned towards me, as if to kiss my cheek, but whispered in my ear. “Talk to him. But he mustn’t suspect I said anything.”

And then they were off, their cab heading for the port.

My next stop was Scotland Yard. Lestrade took his feet off the desk as soon as he saw me at his door.

“I hope you’ve got something,” he said. “I’ve reached a half dozen dead-ends.”

“I might. Who checked out Farrell’s alibi? In court he said he was visiting his mother and didn’t get back until the next day.”

“I did,” Lestrade said. “I drove up and talked to her, verified when he left. She had it written on her calendar.”

I snorted. “She’s his mother. Of course she did. I might have penciled in _Lunch with His Majesty, King George the Fifth,_ on mine, but that doesn’t make it true.”

“Well, very often people who provide alibis are people willing to protect someone. They know it would be hard to prove they lied.”

“It’s not unshakeable,” I said. “I might need to pay her a visit.”

“You think it’s Farrell?”

“I’ve haven’t got a murderer, and the new trial starts Monday. I’m going to turn over every stone I can find, Lestrade.”

“Holmes,” he said. “Don’t badger the woman. She’s elderly and in poor health. If you’re going to talk to her, I’ll go with you.”

“You obviously think I’ve compromised my judgment.”

“I’ve never seen you like this.” He smiled. “You’ve become emotionally involved in this case. I’m afraid you’ve gone goopy.”

“Goopy? What did you think— that I’m a machine? That I don’t have feelings? It’s all right for you to _go goopy_ over what’s her name, the one you married— Abigail, Adelle, Almira—“

“Alice.”

“— but did I ever accuse you of losing your judgment? Not that you ever had any real talent for deduction, though I will say that you’ve improved since I’ve known you. But I’m not to have such feelings, am I?”

“You’re always giving me the speech about Reason,” he replied. “And Logic. I can’t think how many times I’ve heard that speech. And you talk about emotion as if it’s repulsive. What am I to think? That this is a new Sherlock Holmes, one who actually cares about his client?”

“I do care,” I admitted, a bit humbled. “And I need your help, if you would be so good.”

He grabbed his hat. “All right, then. Let’s go see the old lady.”

Lestrade remembered where she lived, off Charles Street, not far from the Epping station. The home confirmed many of my guesses about his background— upper class, but not with money to burn. Respectable parents, his father a doctor or a solicitor, upstanding in the community. Father dead, mother elderly, no other siblings.

As we approached the door, I saw a curtain move in the room that overlooked the front yard. Lestrade rang the bell.

The door was answered by a woman, clearly a servant.

“I’m Inspector Lestrade with Scotland Yard, and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. We’re here to see Mrs Farrell.” Lestrade reached for his badge. “Is she available?”

“Oh!” said the woman, looking as if she’d seen a ghost. The door closed in our faces.

This was puzzling. Criminals might close the door on the police, but most people recognise that it’s a bad idea. I stepped back, allowing him to address the issue.

He rang the bell again and we could hear voices inside, footsteps coming and going. The door opened once more, this time by a man wearing an Anglican collar.

“May I help you?” He didn’t look as if he really wanted to help us, but he had been appointed to open the door and was just doing his duty.

“Metropolitan Police,” Lestrade said, showing his badge. “We’re here to talk to Mrs Farrell. Is she at home?”

Even I could tell that something was off here, something had happened which we hadn’t yet deduced.

“She is at home,” the cleric replied benignly. “At long last, she has left the troubles of this world and has gone home to her Saviour.”

We both gaped for a few seconds.

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said. “Do you mean she’s died?”

A voice came from inside the house. “Who is it? Unless it’s the funeral home, tell them to shove off.” Andrew Farrell came to the door, looked at Lestrade, looked at me, and said, “What the hell do you want?” He was glaring at me especially when he said this.

“We didn’t know,” I said.

Lestrade added, “We’re sorry to intrude, but we’re rechecking alibis and came to talk with your mother. Obviously, we’ve come at a bad time—“

“Go to hell.” The door slammed.

“I think he needs a bit of time,” Lestrade said.

I shook my head. “We don’t have time.”

Lestrade urged me towards the car. “Look, if the lady has just passed away, there is nothing we can ask her. I’ll call on him tomorrow or the day after, and express our condolences, see if I can squeeze anything out of him.”

I shook my head. “Squeeze him? You’re worse than I am, pressuring a man under the influence of grief to admit to lying under oath. Brilliant.”

“Was I too callous?”

“Not at all, old bean,” I replied. “I think it’ll be perfect timing. And remind him that his mother is watching him from heaven, hearing every lie that falls from his lips.”

Lestrade sighed. “Let’s not get carried away.”

It was Thursday. Andrew Farrell had vanished. I’d called his mother’s house and his flat. No answer. I went and skulked around outside his building, talking to the neighbours, the postman, the delivery man, and the iceman, but no one had seen him. I left word with his landlady that he should contact me.

I had nothing.

When my telephone rang, I picked it up, hoping for news at last.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“Permission has been granted for you to visit Dr Watson once more. Your ten-day exclusion has ended.”

I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”

“I thought you’d sound happier. How are things progressing?”

“Things are terrible. No progress. I don’t know what to tell him.”

“Tell him the truth,” Mycroft said, “that you have explored every avenue, spent every favour you could call in to find the evidence to acquit him. Tell him you will continue to work on it even as the trial begins. He cannot ask more of you than that.”

“He should be asking much more; he has everything to lose, and I’ve let him down.”

“It is one of the flaws of our justice system, brother, one we live with only because perfect justice is not possible in a human world.”

“In the abstract, that may be acceptable,” I said. “To John Watson, who is about to die, it is wretchedly unfair.” I took a deep breath, feeling a sob welling up in my chest. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

“Tell him that you have not abandoned him. Tell him that you will not forget, and that even if the worst should come to pass, you will continue working to exonerate him posthumously.”

_A poor consolation_ , I thought.

I presented myself at the gate of the prison and was admitted into the visitor’s room. Unsure what to say, I sat and waited until he was escorted in. The guard gave the usual reminders and left, locking the door behind him.

Though it had only been ten days, I thought he looked thinner. I had tried to compose my face so as not to betray my bad news.

When he entered and saw me, he looked abashed, but smiled. “Mr Holmes. I’m very sorry about last time.”

“Don’t be,” I said. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have gone to see your father.”

He shook his head. “I haven’t been completely honest. There are things I should tell you.”

“Please, Dr Watson—“

“Call me John.” His eyes met mine and held them. “I want you to call me John. You’ve been my only visitor, the only one who has not doubted my innocence. I know other people are working to free me, too, but you pushed them to take another look. If you hadn’t done that, I would have lost hope. You’ve been with me here, and have seen my despair. You’ve comforted me. I can’t touch you, or shake your hand, but I want you to call me John. Will you let me call you Sherlock?”

“Yes, John. Of course.” His name, in my mouth, felt right and natural, as if we had lived all those fantasies I’d invented. In our chairs, in front of the a blazing hearth, I would have called him _John,_ and he would have smiled at me and said _Sherlock._ I blinked, hoping he would not notice my tears.

“Thank you, Sherlock. I will be grateful if you do me the favour of hearing me out.”

“Of course, John. Anything you ask, I will do.”

“Sherlock,” he said, and smiled. “Do you have any brothers?”

“One, seven years my senior. His name is Mycroft.”

“I’ve already told you a bit about my brother Harry. We were very close. He understood what I am, and did not judge me. You were not wrong; I was wounded, though not physically. When Harry died, his loss was so painful to me that I felt it, physically, in my shoulder, where the bullet that killed him had gone. He had a girl waiting at home whom he planned to marry when he returned. He would have given my father grandchildren.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “My father would think me a pervert, a damned sinner, if he knew that I had relations with men.”

“But you’ve been with women as well,” I pointed out.

He lowered his head and sighed. “I know Andy’s told you things. They’re all true. And that makes my sin even worse. An invert at least has no attraction to the opposite sex. I have not that excuse, and this is why I could not tell my father. He might understand an aberration of nature, a poor creature whose wires have gotten crossed somehow. He would not understand a man who has the correct impulses towards women, but also chooses to fornicate with men. _I_ should have died, not Harry. He thinks it was the war that changed me. I won’t deny that it damaged me, but all it did was make me realise what I can no longer deny.” He raised his eyes to mine. “My sins are not ones he could forgive.”

“John, your father does not judge you as harshly as you judge yourself. And I would never— it wasn’t for me to tell him that. Mostly, I asked him questions. I suppose that was nosy of me, but I wanted to understand you better. I’m sure your father would forgive you, if you ask him.”

“He cannot conceive of what goes on.” He stared at his hands, clenched on the table. “He’s a very good man, but naive. An innocent, good man who brought me up with love. I’ve spent my entire life trying to be worthy of his love. I brought girls home to meet him. Harry and I were always competitive, so when he got engaged to Edith, I told my father I’d met someone, too. We used to joke, me and Harry, about who would have more children.”

“But Harry knew,” I said.

He nodded. “Once he caught me with another boy. I was afraid he’d tell Dad, but he promised he wouldn’t. He said I’d meet the right girl, and I’d get over it. And I thought girls were fine. But I couldn’t stop what I felt. When I joined the army, there were more men like me, but for most of them it was just the war that made them queer. Only a soldier can understand what I mean. We were comrades, willing to die for one another, and we took care of one another. Some of them had wives and girls back home, and knew they’d give it up when they left the army. I knew I wouldn’t. I even went to the chaplain and confessed. He told me, _pray to resist temptation._ ” He laughed. “As if it were that easy. I’d been praying all my life. There wasn’t any literature about it, either. Everything I read told me that I was mentally ill, defective. When I got home, I went to a doctor, a urologist, and asked him if he could cure me. He gave me morphine injections to suppress my libido. That’s when I became an addict.”

I understood. I’d given myself the same treatment at one point, with the same result. When my brother found out, he told me to stop being a fool and accept what I was. My father might have disapproved, but he died while I was at university. Like my brother, my mother has always known, and never suggested that there was anything wrong with me.

He continued. “When I’d managed to get over my addiction, my urges were worse than ever. And then I met Mary. I’ve told you how she gained a hold over me. It was more than just having sex with her— she represented that entire world of new ideas, throwing off conventions. The effect of this on me was like the most powerful drug. I didn’t tell my father because it was, after all, a very sinful life, but I began to feel better about myself. I could redefine myself as _unconventional,_ and he might excuse my behaviour as _wild oats._ In a few years, I hoped, I would mature and settle into a more respectable life.”

“You thought about marrying her.”

“No, I really thought she’d tire of me. But I also had the delusion that my perversion was cured. She was an amazing woman, Holmes. I didn’t love her, not romantically, and often I didn’t even like her, but she mesmerised me. She joked that I was boring and ordinary. That was what I wanted to be. Ordinary, like everyone else.”

“What about Farrell?”

“Mary had sex with other men, which ought to have bothered me more than it did. She never had sex with Farrell, though, and we both knew why. That night, we’d been drinking. And she knew— she _knew_ that she could ask me and I would. He wanted it. He never had any problem with pretending to be straight while secretly having sex with men. No moral scruples. He felt that to be authentic meant to give in to every urge.

“I might not have done it, but I’d been drinking, and Farrell was coming on strong. Mary encouraged it. Afterwards, when I realised what I’d done, I knew I had to get away from that life. I’d managed to live as a straight man for two years, and realised that I wasn’t. That was when I decided to leave her. I thought about leaving London, starting over somewhere new, maybe a small town. Or I could go abroad.”

“Men like us,” I said gently, “go through a lot of self-loathing. I’m lucky my family does not disapprove.”

“You are,” he replied. “But it isn’t easy, regardless. I had hoped to spare my father. He reads the paper, but he could never imagine the kind of life I was living. When I was arrested, I was ashamed that he would know, and hoped he would never learn the worst. When the prosecutor made that innuendo, I think he was just fishing, but I was terrified that some newspaper reporter would go digging and Andy would spill the beans. The only thing that kept his mouth shut is that he didn’t want people knowing he was queer. When you said you’d talked to my father, I was sure he finally knew what kind of man I am.” He gave me a sad smile. “You did nothing wrong, Sherlock. I should have owned up a long time ago.”

“You can do that still.”

“It’s too late, I think. He will have made up his mind.”

“He’s your father, John, before anything else. If I learned anything on my trip to Hexham, it’s how very much he loves you.”

He bit his lip, trembling, and closed his eyes for a moment. His voice wavered when he spoke. “If I write a letter to him, would you see that he gets it? I cannot expect his forgiveness, but I could at least confess what I’ve done. It would lie heavy on me if I do not, if I die—”

“I will do what you want. I hope that you will be able to tell him yourself, though.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to pretend, Sherlock,” he said softly. “I saw your face when I came into this room, and I know.”

“I’m sorry, John. I’ve failed. I won’t bore you with the details. And I won’t stop until I’ve solved it. I’m meeting Sir Toby tonight. He’ll try to get the trial postponed until January, so we’ll have more time. I can’t promise that will be possible, but…” My reassurances sounded hollow.

“Thank you.” He gave me his beautiful smile. “You’re a wonder, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, and you don’t even know how amazing you are. I was alone, and you came rushing in here, giving me hope. My hero. That’s who you are. I owe you so much…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “My dear one. My dear Sherlock.”

“You promised,” I said, choking back a sob. “You promised to look at the flat.”

He laughed. “It would have been an experience, I’m sure, to share a flat with you. That thought has occupied many of my hours in here. Happy hours, I might add, imagining that.”

“And I’m not forgetting your other promise.”

“Which promise was that?”

I smiled through my tears. “If I save your neck, you said you’d marry me. I have every intention of saving your neck. Then I will go down on one knee before you.”

“My God, Sherlock,” he said, “You have no idea how amazing you are. I am worth nowhere near all the trouble you’ve gone to. Thank you— for everything.”

I stood, trembling. “I’ll see you in court on Monday morning, John.”

The guard took him away, and I returned to Baker Street.

Mycroft arrived early for our meeting, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Because of the hour and the gravity of the occasion, Mrs Hudson had suggested drinks, and had set out glasses and a soda siphon for that purpose. Mycroft opened a bottle of brandy and poured exactly the correct amount into snifters. Lestrade arrived and silently took the glass Mycroft handed him. In a way, it felt like somebody’s funeral.

Sir Toby and Mr Pierce arrived and we exchanged subdued greetings. Mrs Hudson made sure everyone had a glass in hand and a place to sit, then retreated downstairs.

Sir Toby nodded at me. “Well, Sherlock, tell us what you have.”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” I admitted. “Not enough to create reasonable doubt. The suicide note I suspected has not materialised. Miss Pugh is unshakeable. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, as they say, but I believe her. There is no proof that she concealed any evidence, no witness to cast doubt on her testimony.”

The advocate nodded. “On the stand, she was a credible witness. My cross examination of her did not achieve much. Who else is there?”

“Mr Morstan is off my list, provided Mr Pierce can confirm that he is, in fact, paying for the defence.”

Mr Pierce inclined his head. “He is. I had our business manager confirm it, as you requested. And I today received his financial statements. He is telling the truth; outside of the house, the investments in the trust were worth little, not nearly enough to pay off his debts.”

“Yes. I don’t suppose that exactly clears him, but it does give us quite a hurdle, if we want to make him out to be the murderer. HIs motive is weak; no jury will believe he’d murder his sister and then pay for her lover’s defence. He has an alibi as well. I doubt that he could even arrange such a thing. The man can’t even manage his own office. Then there’s Farrell.”

“He has an alibi as well,” Mr Pierce said.

“Yes, his mother. His elderly, senile mother who has just died,” I said. “Needless to say, we could not persuade him to come forward and revisit his testimony. He rather persuaded us to _go to hell._ ”

“And now we can’t even find the man,” said Lestrade. “I’ve got men watching his flat.”

Sir Toby smiled. “Do you really think he could have done it? What could be his motive?”

“He resented Miss Morstan’s success. He admired her as well, but admiration is often overmastered by resentment. He also had a passion for Watson, according to Miss Pugh. He had proclivities that he wished to conceal, which Watson certainly knew about. Watson rejected him. We might make a motive out of all this, if we can create doubt about his alibi. He associated with people who dealt in drugs, which would provide him the means to provide Mary Morstan with an overdose.”

“What happened to the syringe and the bottle?” asked Sir Toby. “Why would he kill her and remove those, instead of making it look like suicide?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “I surmised that Miss Pugh had done that, but I fear that she was telling the truth when she said there was no note, no syringe, no bottle.”

Mr Pierce shook his head. “If you’re thinking the charges will be dismissed on the basis of this scenario, they won’t. The Crown will require evidence, not suggestions. An admission that he was there might be enough. But you say the man threw you out, and now has disappeared.”

“Could we prove suicide?” my brother asked. “Is there any way he might have concealed evidence that she killed herself?”

I nodded. “That was one course of events that I thought of. Or an accidental overdose. If we could talk to him, we might bully him into admitting he was there. If not, and it goes to trial, we can put him on the stand again, take the gloves off. There’s still Miss Pugh’s creaking floor, provided she is willing to testify.”

Lestrade nodded. “We might approach him when he’s had time to think about it, when he’s buried his mother, perhaps. Maybe he’ll be in a confessional frame of mind.”

“In a week the new trial could be over,” Mr Pierce said. “A week from today, the jury could be sent into deliberation. I am not confident that there will be another Mrs Turner to hold things up.”

“If you’re certain that Mr Farrell is concealing something,” Mycroft said, “it stands to reason that someone else might know something. Secrets are never as well kept as people suppose. Talk to his landlady, his neighbours, the person whodelivers his mail, who cuts his hair. Perhaps we could find a cab driver willing to talk.”

Sir Toby nodded. “We’ll have to work quickly. What do you need?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “I already have people who’ve been working on it. We’re giving it top priority and will put someone on every lead.”

My heart felt like lead in my chest. We would do everything suggested, but in the end I feared that it would not be enough. Irene had guessed something. She sent me the portrait so I would talk to Bertie Pugh. She showed me the manuscript so I would stop fixating on Moriarty. She must have had a hunch about Farrell. _He knows,_ she’d said. “We need a confession. Nothing less will do.”

Sir Toby nodded. “We’ll plan our line of questioning with your assistance, Sherlock. I’ve unlocked witnesses on the stand before.”

So that was it. The meeting ended, and the lawyers prepared to go home. We said our goodbyes. Mycroft resumed his chair and refilled Lestrade’s glass, mine, and his own. We drank in silence for a few moments.

“I wish,” said Mycroft, “that I could do something.”

This admission was one I had never before heard— never expected to hear in my life, not from Mycroft. My all-seeing, all-knowing brother confessing his own helplessness was unprecedented. My heart, already a lead weight, sank a bit further.

“As do we all,” Lestrade said. “If Farrell knows something, we’ll put the screws to the fellow. We’ll interview the mother’s neighbours, see if they remember him there that evening, if anyone saw him leave.”

“If he was in Miss Morstan’s flat that evening, perhaps she rang him up, or he rang her,” Mycroft said. “We might check with the ‘phone exchange to see when that happened.”

“We might get a postponement,” Lestrade suggested. “Since a man’s life is at stake, they shouldn’t be in a hurry.”

“It’s been nearly four months since the arrest,” I said. “I don’t think we can argue that the court has been hasty.”

Fortunately, no one told me to cheer up. That would have been the final straw.

“You’ve spoken to him?” Mycroft asked quietly.

I didn’t need to ask who he meant. “I spoke to Dr Watson earlier today. I told him we would do our best to adjourn the trial until January, but not to count on it. He very decently thanked me for all my hard work.” Tears sprang to my eyes. “He was very gracious.”

Lestrade leaned over and patted my arm. “It’s not over yet, Holmes. We’ll pull him through yet.”

I jumped when someone began to knock on the door downstairs. Heart pounding, I listened as Mrs Hudson’s footsteps crossed the vestibule and opened the door. I heard her talking to a man, but could not make out words, so loud was the blood throbbing in my ears. We all rose from chairs and looked towards the door.

Then there were feet on the stairs and I heard her say, “I’m certain he’s still up and would be happy to receive you.” The door opened. “Mr Farrell to see you, Mr Holmes.”


	15. Fifteen

Once Farrell was seated with a glass of brandy, he looked at each of us in turn and then stared down into his drink. “I didn’t kill her. But you all will have your knives into me if I don’t speak.” He laughed harshly.

“If you don’t speak, an innocent man will die,” I said. “Most men would feel some guilt about that.”

My brother did not speak, but laid a cautioning hand on my arm.

“You’re right,” Farrell said. “And that’s why I am willing to speak. I know you think I’m a coward, not coming forward sooner.”

“Why now?” Lestrade asked.

“If I go to prison, at least my mother won’t have to hear that news.”

“We thank you for coming, Mr Farrell,” said Mycroft. “Would it be all right if Mrs Hudson takes down your statement?”

“Fine,” he said. “I will sign it, and you may as well all be witnesses.”

Mrs Hudson was still standing at the door, eager to hear what he had to say, but uncertain whether she was welcome to remain. I nodded to her.

Once she was seated with a shorthand pad, Farrell began.

“I assume you know,” he said, looking at me. “You have no proof, but you’ve put it all together.”

“I have a theory,” I said. “I expect that I am mostly correct.”

He laughed. “Well, don’t think too badly of me. I’ll give you what you want, but think on this: it might have been anyone. I was there that night because she asked me, and I tried to help. I was wrong not to come forward sooner. Never mind. Let me begin.” He took a swallow of brandy, and that seemed to calm him. “I am not a dope dealer, but I know where to get things. Occasionally, I would obtain those things for Mary.”

“How often?” asked Sir Toby.

“Maybe twice, in the last year. Before that, a handful of times. It was infrequent. Usually cocaine, sometimes morphine. Watson treated her headaches, and I supplied when he wouldn’t dose her. I lied under oath; I was there that night, after Watson left. She rang me at my mother’s, where I was staying. Calling me there meant she was desperate.”

I interrupted. “Did she know about your mother being ill?”

“She did. Not that she cared about other people’s problems. That was just how she was. It was a short call. She was worked up about her book, and said Watson was coming over later, after he’d had dinner with someone, that friend of his. She needed something to sleep, and wasn’t sure if he would give her enough— or anything at all. She had a feeling that he was going to tell her he wouldn’t see her again.”

“What time did she call you?” I asked.

“It was evening, maybe seven o’clock.”

“So he hadn’t been over yet when you spoke with her.”

“No. Epping is about an hour from London, so I told Mary I’d catch the next train and come right over when I got in. I told my mother that I had to go home. She had a bad heart, and some senility, so I promised I’d come back soon. Those last months she’d been failing, and my visits were more frequent. She didn’t ever remember when I told her things, so usually I wrote it down for her, when she would see me next. I didn’t bother that night, since I planned to be back the next day. That’s why her calendar still showed that I was staying through the next day. When I came back to see her, I did not correct it, seeing as it was already past. I wasn’t deliberately trying to provide an alibi for myself. I just didn’t think of it.”

“Understandable,” said Mycroft. “I’m sure you were thinking of other things at that point.”

“I arrived at her flat around one, I think,” he said.

“Why so late?” Lestrade asked. “If you left on the next train, which was nine, you would have reached London by ten, arrived at her house before eleven.”

“I was getting dope for her, trying to find someone who could supply on short notice. When I arrived, she said Watson had been there and given her some morphine, a very small dose, not enough to help her sleep. I guessed that she’d taken cocaine to motivate herself to write, and couldn’t stop feeling agitated without something more to calm her down. She was alert and calmer, but not sleepy. We talked for a while.” He paused and took another sip.

“You talked about Watson,” I suggested.

He nodded. “She said that his refusal to come back was making it impossible to write. She’d put her latest manuscript away because it frustrated her to look at it. She said, _I don’t know if I can do this anymore._ ”

“Did she love him?” I don’t know why I asked this. It didn’t matter at all.

He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I’m not even sure Watson could tell you what she felt. Mary wasn’t a woman who stopped to analyse her own feelings. That night, she only knew that she hadn’t been able to write since he left, and it was making her unhappy. We talked for about an hour. She asked me to tell her the plot of my latest play because my writing always put her to sleep.” He smiled. “She didn’t go in for that kind of writing. So I started telling her, and she giggled, and we made up some crazy backstories for the characters until she started to get sleepy.

“Then I injected her. We’d been drinking gin. I don’t know how much she’d had. She’d asked me to stay, to sleep in the extra bedroom next to her study. It wasn’t exactly a bedroom; more of a lumber room, full of old furniture under sheets. There was a sofa, and I found a blanket. I went right to sleep.” He looked at me. “It was about half past two.”

He had drained his glass. Mycroft poured another inch in it. He took a sip and began again.

“I woke up around six o’clock. I didn’t hear her moving around, so I went to check on her. I checked for a pulse. She was dead.” He paused. “I took the syringe and the vial of morphine, and I left.”

“That’s it?” I said. “You just left?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft asked, “Were you aware that you’d given her a lethal dose?”

“No. I didn’t know her tolerance level, nor how much gin she’d had before I got there. I assumed it was a safe dose. Evidently, it was not.”

“Why did you take the syringe and bottle?” I asked.

He shook his head. “All I could think was that I’d given her the stuff and the police would call it murder and my fingerprints would be on them. I thought of my mother, and I panicked. Only later did I realise my mistake, when they arrested Watson.”

I asked, “What did you do with the evidence?”

“Tossed them in a bin on my way to the station. I caught a train to Epping and was back before my mother woke up.” He sighed. “I’m not a cunning man, Mr Holmes. Another man might have made it look like suicide. If that makes me an idiot, so be it.”

Sir Toby looked at Mr Pierce. “No _mens rea_. Manslaughter?”

“Criminal negligence,” the solicitor replied. “Using an illegal drug, without intent to kill.”

Mycroft turned to Farrell. “They mean that there is no death penalty. You may serve time in prison, but not a life sentence.”

Farrell nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you have anything to add to your statement?” asked Mr Pierce.

“No.”

“Very well. Mrs Hudson, would you mind typing up the statement so Mr Farrell can sign?”

Mrs Hudson took her shorthand record and went downstairs to her typewriter to transcribe it. Mycroft poured us each another inch of brandy. The silence felt tense, as if something were unfinished.

I opened my mouth to ask him something, but Mycroft spoke first. “We all appreciate your willingness to come forward.”

“Will this be enough to clear Watson?” Farrell asked. “Will I have to testify?”

“I don’t believe you will,” Sir Toby said. “I will contact the Attorney-General tonight— we’re old friends, so he won’t mind— and explain it to him. On Monday, he will offer no evidence against the prisoner, the charge will be withdrawn, and a verdict of ‘Not Guilty’ be returned. Your name will not be mentioned. The charges brought against you will be separate. If Mr Lestrade is willing, and you agree not to leave town, you won’t be arrested until after the charges have been dropped to avoid publicity.”

“I won’t flee,” Farrell said. “I have nowhere to go.”

Sir Toby continued, “You may be charged with murder; we will offer criminally negligent manslaughter. You will plead guilty, I assume, so unless the Crown rejects the plea, there will be no trial. Under the circumstances, I cannot guarantee that there won’t be publicity at that point. As I said, I don’t believe you will get the maximum sentence, especially as you’ve come forward of your own free will, and have helped save an innocent man from a death sentence. If you wish to make a plea bargain, our firm will defend you pro bono.”

Farrell nodded miserably. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

I could not remain silent. “You checked to see that she was dead, and then you left. When the police contacted you, you acted as if it hadn’t happened. No one had mentioned seeing you, so you went along with that. You made your statement, and let the investigation proceed. You watched him sit in the dock and heard the questions that were asked, heard his character vilified. And when the jury went out to deliberate, what were you thinking?”

“Sherlock,“ Mycroft said. “He’s done the right thing. Leave it.”

“No, he’s right,” said Farrell. “He’s right to ask me that. Since it happened, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t asked myself that question.” Raising his head and looking straight at me, he said, “I loved John Watson. He never loved me, but I don’t hold that against him. And I never thought it would go so badly for him. I should have spoken up sooner, but I my mother was ill, and I thought about how it would affect her if I went public. It was wrong, and I know you think I am a coward. You’re right. It’s been hell, these past months. I’m ready to pay for my mistake.”

With difficulty I restrained myself from commenting on the kind of _hell_ he’d put John Watson through. He might not have deliberately framed him, but he hadn’t bothered to undo his mistake either. I understood his worries about his mother, but was sure that his real reason for coming forth was that he knew I’d cornered him. A voluntary confession was preferable.

Mrs Hudson returned with the statement. All of us signed as witnesses, and Sir Toby notarised it. I was struggling to contain my own anger. It felt so unnecessary, all the weeks that Watson sat in gaol, all my inquiries into Mary Morstan’s life, only to learn that a simple mistake and an act of cowardice had turned it into a murder charge. Had he turned himself in at once, Farrell might have gotten off with just probation. Now, he would undoubtedly serve time. I imagined that Sir Toby could get the perjury charge dropped in exchange for a guilty plea on criminal manslaughter.

The lawyers shook hands and left to begin their work for Monday morning.

“Would you like me to take you home, Mr Farrell?” Lestrade asked. “You won’t be arrested right away, not until the lawyers have sorted out things, but perhaps I could station a constable nearby to keep an eye on you for a few days?”

“If you wish,” he replied. “As I said, I have no intention of fleeing, but I suppose you must take precautions.”

Lestrade nodded. “I can ring for a car to take you home when you’re ready..”

He nodded, but made no move to get up. “If you gentlemen don’t mind, I’d like to share another story with you before I go tonight. I know I have already tried your patience, but if you could indulge me a bit longer, I would thank you.”

“By all means,” Mycroft said. Without asking, he refilled our glasses. We settled in our chairs and waited.

“It’s a drama, really,” he said with a small smile. “I have been bold enough to call myself a playwright these last years. I will not say my plays have drawn large audiences, but I have tried to describe the human experience in ways that will produce an emotional effect. This drama is a bit like the one I have already described for you tonight. It has the same players, and one additional actor. The setting is the same, a house in Mayfair, middle class decor overlaid with bohemian clutter. Its main inhabitant is also the same, a headstrong woman, a writer of mysteries, who manages to both charm and exasperate her loyal friends.

“In the opening scene, she is desperate. Her lover has left her, and she has a deadline she must meet with her publisher. It isn’t going well. Her lover arrives, at her summons, but reluctantly. He understands her very well, but has finally broken free from her. There is an argument, a loud one, but the tears and pleas do not change his resolve. He is a doctor, and has sworn to do no harm. To give her morphine is wrong, he knows, but he has experience in her headaches, and consents to give her a small dose. It will be the last time, he decides; he will have to leave London in order to get away from her. He exits the stage as soon as he has given her the injection and seen that she is calmer.

“The next scene finds her still distraught. She calls a friend, one who has acquired things for her in the past. He is an hour away, but promises to come when he has found the drugs. He checks in with several people he has relied on in the past, but is unsuccessful. He comes to her flat empty-handed.”

Lestrade and I looked at one another. “You said—“ Lestrade began.

“In this scene, Inspector, he arrives without drugs. There is no syringe, no bottle in this scene. The woman offers him gin, and they have a drink. They talk for an hour, maybe more. She is calmer now, and wants to sleep. She begs him to stay, and he does, making a bed for himself on a sofa in the next room. He is exhausted, doesn’t bother to undress, and falls asleep as soon as he lies down.

“He sleeps for perhaps two hours. A new scene: he awakens because he hears voices. Someone is in her room. The voices are quiet, and no one is shouting, but he assumes the boyfriend has returned. Not wanting to see her upset again, he quietly gets out of bed and stands outside her room to listen. The door is partly open, and light spills out into the hall. The audience can see that another character is in the bedroom, talking to her.”

“Another character?” I asked. “Who is it?”

“A mysterious person. Let’s call him M. That could stand for _man,_ or whatever you like. What his role in the drama is, I will let you judge for yourselves. At this point, the dialogue is important, so I will not summarise what they say to one another, but tell you their actual words. Keep in mind that the man in the hall is not seen by either the woman or M. To keep this less confusing, I will call the woman W. Here is the dialogue:

> _M: What is it that matters to you? Surely not those silly books you write._
> 
> _W: You've made your point. You don't need to kill anyone._
> 
> _M (smiling): Me? Dirty my hands? Oh, no, my dear. I'm an academic. Murder is just an interesting problem to me. Your murder, for instance. Suicide, I should say. Self-murder._
> 
> _W: I’m not killing myself. No one would ever believe it._
> 
> _M: I’m afraid you're wrong about that. This is not a warning, my love. This is not about what you write in your boring books. I am untouchable. But I get bored sometimes, so bored, by how predictable everything is._
> 
> _W (weeping): What are you saying?_
> 
> _M: It's a game-- a case, if you will. One the lovely Diana Archer won't be around to solve. The Murder of Mary Morstan._
> 
> _W (desperately): I don’t want to die._
> 
> _M (smiling): But that’s what people do, darling. They die._

“You may think this dialogue is not very realistic,” he continued, “or that I have failed to motivate the actions that follow. These criticisms are legitimate. A murder must have a motive, after all. What will an audience think of a murderer who injects the woman with a drug, enough to kill her, who sits by her while she dies, as if it’s fascinating to watch the life go out of her? Will they be horrified when he leans over and kisses her gently on the forehead, like a child he’s tucked into bed? Such a character might be called a sociopath, but sociopaths are not very interesting, really. They are shocking and unexpected, horrifying even. But it’s not a very satisfying ending.

“The woman should scream for help, but she does not. We will assume that she knows there is no way out, that there is a man with a gun standing offstage who will enter if he hears a scream, or that she fears for her friend sleeping in the next room. We don’t like to see her give up and simply die. That’s not in her character, our audience will think. We want her to fight back.

“And what about the man in the hall, watching through the crack? He’s a pathetic character, in truth. He watches as a murder takes place and says nothing. A loyal friend, the man who came at her beck and call, who would have bought illegal drugs for her, turns out to be just an ordinary coward, afraid of dying. He wishes he’d slept through what he’s just seen. He’d rather not know. He’s not the hero of this drama, or any other.”

He shook his head. “There is no hero, really. It’s a play about the meaningless of existence. People live their lives, and then they die.” He sat, swirling the liquid in his glass. “No, I’m wrong. In an absurd twist, there is one decent character in this drama: the boyfriend. He has a fatal flaw, in that he is the only one in this story who tries to do the right thing from the very beginning. A good man, trying to be a better man, he suffers the consequences of other people’s vanity and cowardice. He stands trial for the murder. In the end, he might die, which would make this a tragedy. What do you think?”

The silence was heavy.

Mycroft set down his glass and shifted in his chair. “There might be another hero. I think that there will be. If the man in the hallway tells the truth…”

Farrell shrugged. “No, there is no hero. That is best. The villain will not be caught, not this time. A good man will not die, and a coward will go to prison.” He sighed, swallowed the last of his brandy. “I am ready to leave now.”

Lestrade got up and used the telephone to summon a constable.

Farrell’s eyes were unfocused. He spoke softly, almost as if talking to himself. “Do you know, he didn’t even look surprised when he turned and saw me. It was as if he’d known I was there, that I’d be watching. And he knew I wasn’t going to say anything about it. He didn’t say a word to me. A bloody game. That’s all it was to him.”

We heard a car pull up, the engine idling. Lestrade stood. “Here’s Sergeant Brown to take you home now, Mr Farrell. I can keep a constable watching you tonight. We’ll take you into custody Monday, after Watson’s case is dismissed. If there are things you need to get in order before that happens, I’d advise you to do so.”

Farrell raised his eyes to me. “I’m very sorry, Mr Holmes. I never wanted John to die.”

I nodded curtly, dissatisfied with how it had ended. “Did Irene know?”

“She told me about the night Mary said all those things to him. He’s not a man to be mocked, she said.”

It was probably a good decision to move to New York, I thought. Irene was much too perceptive to live in the same city with Moriarty.

Sergeant Brown appeared and escorted Farrell out. Mycroft sat down again, sensing my mood. He lit a cigar and offered his case to me and Lestrade.

“What was the point of that?” I said, accepting his match. “His little _drama_?”

Lestrade sighed. “We’ve been trying to get Moriarty forever. I’m just a policeman, but I’m not sure this is the case to try. We can prove nothing, so long after the fact. We have to be holding all the cards before we do that.”

I snorted. “You believe him?”

“I do. He didn’t want to go on record, obviously, but he wanted us to know. It was a warning to us to keep our eyes open. And what he said at the end, about it being a game, that sounds like Moriarty. Not that it matters. Nothing we can pin on him, with Farrell as the only witness. If he’d only spoken up sooner.”

“Farrell is a pathetic man,” I said, “driven by good intentions but thwarted by his own cowardice. If he'd simply told the truth, he might not have served any time.”

“You don’t believe him,” Lestrade said. “Then why did he bother telling that second story?”

“Two possibilities,” I replied. “The first: Payback. He wants me to think that my solution was wrong, and that he’s not pathetic, but justifiably afraid of Moriarty.”

“That may be true, but it doesn’t make his story false,” said Mycroft.

“What’s the second?” asked Lestrade.

“Theatricality: he's a writer and wanted a more dramatic ending for his story. Which is ironic, because it's not at all the kind of thing he would have written. The first version is much more meaningless and tragic. Now he'll go to prison, and who knows what will happen to his writing career. People despise a liar, especially one who lies to cover up his own mistakes.”

“Would you like to know what I think?” asked Mycroft.

“I would,” said Lestrade.

“Don’t encourage him,” I said. “He’s about to tell you that it doesn’t matter, that the only real solution to the case is the one with our signatures on it.”

“You are correct,” said Mycroft. “Even if we had a syringe with his fingerprints on it stuck in Miss Morstan’s arm, it would not make John Watson’s case any stronger than it is now that Farrell has confessed. Considering the difficulty of proving Moriarty’s involvement, I suggest that we accept the confession and not let down our vigilance over Professor Moriarty.”

“One of those confessions is a lie,” I said. “Are we never to know which one is the truth?”

Mycroft smiled. “Quite possibly we won’t. Regardless, justice will be served for Dr Watson.”

“A great relief to us all.” Lestrade stood and set his glass on the table. “I thank you for your hospitality, Holmes— both of you. It’s been an interesting evening. I’ll see you in court on Monday morning.” He slipped his arms into his coat. “Good night, gentlemen.”

Mycroft continued to smoke his cigar. I’d lost my taste for it, though I wasn’t ready for bed. I wouldn’t sleep for at least a few hours.

My brother was watching me, amusement on his features.

“What is it?” I asked irritably.

“You’ve an artistic sensibility, Sherlock, though you like to ignore that. I remember when you started taking violin lessons. You were four, I think, when Mummy bought you your first instrument. She’d brought us to a private recital given by Sarasate for one of her friends. He was quite old then, but still brilliant. You were entranced and demanded your own violin. Hence, the lessons. But you taxed your teachers, always wanting to change something in the pieces you were assigned to play. You would say, _that’s not how it ought to go._ And you would make your own melody. That is what a true artistic mind does. It interprets, and re-writes where the performance falls short. That is what Mr Farrell has done tonight.”

I frowned. “The nature of detective work is determining what _did_ happen, not what might have happened. I was not there. It does not involve me at an emotional level.”

“But it does, Sherlock. Had Farrell come clean at once instead of hiding his involvement, whatever it may have been, you would never have met John Watson.”

“I wish…” I started to speak, but didn’t like to imagine that. “What a waste,” I said.

“I trust that you will visit the good doctor tomorrow and break the news to him? It would be unkind to let him stand in the dock and hear himself unexpectedly exonerated in front of a large crowd. There’s no telling what sort of reaction that might provoke. Unnecessarily dramatic, in any case.”

“I will see him.” I smiled. “He said he’d look at my rooms, maybe think about a flatshare.”

“He has other things to think about before that happens, brother mine. Don’t push him. You’ve done him a great favour, one that obligates him to you. That is not the way to begin a relationship, with one partner in debt to the other.”

“You make it sound hopeless,” I said. “He owes me nothing. What did I do? I didn’t solve it; Farrell felt guilty and finally came forward because he couldn’t stand it.”

“You were the impetus,” Mycroft said. “Through your involvement, he is free.”

I sighed. “And Moriarty is free as well.”

“Another puzzle for you. He is a dangerous man, Sherlock. Do not go up against him alone, certainly not without solid evidence.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“And what of Mrs Godfrey Norton, née Irene Adler?”

“I think she will be safe now. It’s odd. The entire time, I was certain she was giving me clues so I would look more closely at Moriarty, but at the same time she was warning me off.”

“She is quite a match for you in intelligence, brother.” He rose ponderously from his chair. “I will see you Monday, then.”

When he was gone, I sat up for a while, smoking, before I retired to bed. I looked at the empty chair opposite me and smiled. John would be free soon.

For the final time, I went to the gaol and sat in the visitor’s room, waiting for John. It’s odd, I was thinking, how getting everything you want doesn’t make everything turn out the way you’d expected.

He entered, his expression torn between hope and fear.

“What’s happened?” he said. “Something must have, or you wouldn’t have come.”

“We have a confession,” I replied.

“Oh.” He looked down, blinking nervously. “I’m afraid to ask. Who?”

“Andrew Farrell.”

“Andy?” He shook his head. “But… why?”

“It was an accidental overdose. She begged him for something, and he didn’t realise how much you’d given her, or how much gin or cocaine she’d had. It was a mistake, and he has owned it now.”

“He panicked, didn’t say anything because…” He frowned. “Was he angry with me?”

“He thought, quite rightly, that he’d be accused of manslaughter and hoped to spare his mother seeing that. Then he just didn’t know how to stop lying, even when he saw you on trial. His mother recently died, so I suppose he felt it was time to do the right thing.”

“Oh.” His face was blank with surprise. “I just can’t imagine… Andy was my friend. Well, after I left Mary, he wanted more, but I didn’t. I suppose he felt rejected, resented that. But he’s admitted it now, and that’s what matters.” He suddenly seemed to register the implications of this. “So, I’ll be freed? Does he have to testify? Oh, my God— I’ll be able to leave this place and— Oh, God. I don’t know what to say.”

“The Attorney General has agreed to dismiss the charges against you based on new evidence. Farrell will be charged with perjury and criminally negligent manslaughter. The perjury charge may be dismissed if he pleads guilty. But whatever happens to him, you will be released after the trial convenes and the prosecutor makes his statement to the judge. The murder charge against you will be dismissed. I’m not sure whether they will pursue any charges of medical negligence or malpractice. They might look into the circumstances of your administration of the drug. I’m sure your defence team will be happy to represent you.”

He nodded, still overwhelmed. “I’m… what can I say? When you came here the other day and told me, I was disappointed, but I understood. It was a long shot, all of this.”

“John, I’m very happy for you.”

“And I owe everything to you,” he said. “I meant what I said the other day. You’re a wonder, my hero.”

“I’ve never had a case mean so much to me,” I replied. “I admit that I have feelings for you, but I don’t expect— look, you’re free now, and the last thing you should be worrying about is owing me anything. You don’t have to look at the flat. But should you be amenable… I will not consider another flatmate, John. It’s you or nobody. Whenever you’re ready— or if you’re never ready— it’s all fine.”

“Thank you. I’m rather overwhelmed at the moment. I’d been thinking about how many days I might have left, and imagined spending them in my cell. I imagined you visiting me, too, and that was a great comfort. And now— it hasn’t all sunk in yet. I meant to start a new life before all this began.”

“And now you can do that,” I said. “The truth has made you free.”

He shook his head. “No man is ever really free. I used to think about that quite often, sitting in here.”

I stood. “Well, you will have time to think about other things now. And I will not hold you to anything we might have said to one another in this room.”

He stood as well. The guard had noticed, and was unlocking the door.

“Sherlock, you will never be out of my thoughts. I… I don’t know what I’m good for anymore. You deserve better than what I can give you now, but I hope that won’t always be the case.”

The door was open. He still looked dazed, but was smiling as he was led away.


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the reunion we've all been waiting for-- and a few surprises as well!
> 
> I want to thank all my loyal readers for following this, my maiden voyage into writing a classic whodunnit. Your comments have inspired me and helped me keep my focus. You have been generous in your praise, and I am honored that you all took your time to read and leave feedback. You make me a better writer. 
> 
> Kudos to you all!

The spectators erupted into deafening cheers and applause when it was announced that the Crown would call no witnesses, offer no evidence against the prisoner, and the charges would be dropped. The judge banged his gavel, said _not guilty,_ and then continued pounding, calling for order. But even he was smiling when silence was finally achieved so he could announce that not the slightest imputation would rest upon John Watson, who would leave the court without any stain upon his character. The cheering then resumed, and the reporters for the various newspapers rushed towards the doors, positioning themselves to interview the newly-freed man before he could escape.

Across the courtroom, Watson had caught my eye and mouthed the words to me, but the moment the final gavel came down _,_ the courtroom turned into a mass of people, all talking at top volume and pushing towards the doors. Mr Pierce had thought ahead, had a car meet Watson at a side door to whisk him away. I had imagined a different ending, but it was the romantic in me that had hoped for more. The case was solved, John was a free man, and that was all that mattered.

I invited Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner to a celebratory lunch at Simpson’s, along with Molly Hooper. I ordered champagne, and we had many toasts, much laughter. I did not know how to thank these three ladies, each of them so willing to stand for what was right. For Mrs Turner’s benefit, we recounted the episode with the flying centipedes and giggled over Mrs Hudson’s lock picking skills.

Once home, I began to feel the exhaustion I’d been keeping at bay for the last month. It wasn’t sleep I needed, it was idleness. Wrapped in my dressing gown, I lay on the sofa in a kind of stupor, still turning over all the details of the case.

John Watson was free, but it would not be easy for him after two sensational trials. He was a private man, not used to having his life exposed to public scrutiny. Winning did not mean he could pick up the life he’d been forced to put on hold and simply carry on. Mycroft was right; he felt an obligation to me, and that was not the way to begin what I had imagined.

Mrs Hudson brought up tea at five o’clock, along with a plate of sandwiches and a few biscuits. But she knows how I am after a case is over, and told me she’d stop back later.

I slept dreamlessly, but not deeply, not bothering to retire to my bed. I heard St Mary’s toll midnight, saw that it was dark, and went back to sleep. The next time I opened my eyes was when the doorbell chimed.

Mrs Hudson was opening the door and speaking to someone. I could hear at once who the visitor was and jumped up, scattering crumbs and tripping over my dressing gown.

“Woo-hoo! Sherlock! Are you decent?”

I was sure I looked awful, but could hardly ask him to wait while I washed, shaved, combed my hair, and put on real clothing. He’d only ever seen me in a suit and tie, my hair tamed, my face smooth.

“Erm— come in, Mrs Hudson.”

She beamed. “It’s Dr Watson, love. Come to see you.”

He was wearing the same suit he’d worn for the trial, covered by a rather ratty coat. In his hands he held a bowler, which he kept nervously turning. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said.

“I apologise for my appearance,” I said. “I fell asleep on the sofa…” Running a hand through my hair, I discovered that my rebellious curls had asserted themselves.

His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the chaos. “You must have been exhausted.”

“End of a case,” I said. “It takes a lot out of me.”

He nodded. “I’m appreciative.”

We stood, looking awkwardly at one another for a long moment.

“I wanted to tell you,” he finally said. “I’m leaving for Hexham, to see my father.”

Not unexpected, but I’d hoped… I smiled. “That’s good. I’m glad you’re doing that.”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be there.” He lowered his eyes. “I’ve spent so much time counting days…. The idea that I can actually plan my life feels…” He bit his lip.

“Scary?”

He nodded. “It’s not a small thing. I need to go home for a while before I think about what comes next. Maybe that will help me figure things out.”

He was telling me _I’m sorry, goodbye._ “Of course. Do what you need to do.”

“You deserve so much more than I have left to give,” he said, shaking his head. “And you would soon be tired of me not having that to give.”

“John, please don’t. I understand. You’re not ready, but don’t ever think you’re not worthy, or that you owe me something.”

“I do owe you something,” he said, meeting my gaze. “Something I don’t know how to repay. Before all this happened, I was running— not towards a new life, as I thought. I was running away from myself. I want you to know that you— your unwavering conviction that I was innocent— _you_ are what finally made me realise that the world is not something to fear or hate or hide from. The world can break our hearts, but it can also take our breath away.” He smiled, but there were tears glistening in his eyes. “You. You do that to me.”

Wordlessly, I opened my arms to him. This time, I was crying as well.

“I’ll come back,” he said softly, his head pressed against my shoulder. “I don’t know when, but it will happen. One day, I’ll be on your doorstep. We’ll share a cup of tea, and we’ll talk about something other than… all of this. I don’t expect you to wait—“

“I will. I don’t care how long it is. When you have an answer, you’ll come back. And we’ll see what comes next.”

“Thank you.” He tipped his face up towards mine. “Not just for saving me. I’m grateful that you considered me worth saving.”

He closed his eyes. I closed mine as well, and our lips met. “That’s a promise,” he whispered. “I will come back to you, Sherlock Holmes.”

I leaned down, pressed my forehead against his. “I will be waiting for you. Fare thee well, my love.”

At the door he turned and smiled at me. “I’ll be off then,” he said, placing his bowler on his head.

I heard his feet on the stairs. At the window I watched him walk down Baker Street, towards the train station. And then he was gone.

“Come back to me,” I whispered.

I pulled myself together, ate the breakfast Mrs Hudson ( _not your housekeeper_ ) had made for me, got dressed, and went for a walk. It was a cold day, but not bitter or windy, and it felt good to walk without a destination, to think without a problem to solve. In a few days I would be bored, but today I needed to stretch my legs, breathe some fresh air, and let myself process.

I wished I’d been at that crime scene. Maybe I would have seen something that would have told me what happened and spared us all weeks of misery. John Watson might have been questioned, but probably not arrested, Andrew Farrell might have come forward then, Bertie Pugh would have silently grieved, and Charles Morstan would still have been in debt. And I would never have met those people. I would never have known John Watson.

I’d achieved my goal, but it all felt unfinished. Moriarty, whatever his involvement had been, was free to spin his webs. I thought about Farrell’s second story, his _drama._ It seemed implausible that it could have happened that way, but Moriarty was an implausible person.

A sociopath, Farrell had called him. He’d threatened me because I had made him a suspect and ruined his perfect game. To him I was just another gnat to swat away— a persistent gnat that might require more energy to swat than it was worth. It was a compliment, in a way, that I made him nervous.

Farrell’s first story was simpler and more believable, and it was the solution I had finally hit on, but it was disappointing. Farrell was an inferior villain. In fact, everything about the man was disappointing. He was a bad playwright, a disloyal friend, and a pathetic human being, letting someone take the blame and almost go to the gallows for his own stupidity. He wasn’t even smart enough to leave the evidence in place, leaving the police to conclude it was a murder. The best thing one could say about him was that he’d loved his mother.

If I believed the first story, I did so simply because the second confession sounded more like a bad play. Farrell had admitted as much. His play was acted by poorly motivated characters behaving in ways that were not believable. As a representation of real life, it was not at all _authentic._ In the end, even he, a writer of plays that celebrated the meaninglessness of existence, needed meaning.

When I returned to the flat, Lestrade was waiting for me.

“You’ve taken Farrell in?” I asked.

He nodded. “He’s been arraigned, pleaded guilty, and will be kept in custody until sentencing. That’ll happen after the holidays. I think he’d appreciate a visitor.”

“It won’t be me. I have nothing to say to him.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Not even to wring more drama out of him?”

“Especially not for that. I might go to the sentencing, if they’ll let me in. I’d like to see him explain himself to a judge.”

Lestrade nodded. “Well, happy Christmas. You spending it with family?”

“Unavoidably, yes. I’d happily stay here alone for a few days, but my mother insists that I come home. I may as well. With Mrs Hudson going to see her sister, there will be no mince pies or Christmas pudding here.”

“I’m sure your mother will be happy to pull out all the stops. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”

“You as well, Lestrade. Thank you— for everything.”

My brother insisted that I attend his holiday do, and Mrs Hudson urged me as well, saying that I’d been far too gloomy of late, and that Mycroft, although he is generally insufferable, would at least provide excellent refreshments.

It was the week before Christmas. It felt as if a year had gone by since I was looking at John Watson across a courtroom, heard the judge say that he was free to go, cleared of all charges, and saw him crumple in relief. It wasn’t a year. It had only been twelve days since that happened.

Toby Allerton approached me as I looked over the sideboard, selecting a mince pie. “Well, you must be pleased, Sherlock. You’ve saved an innocent man from hanging, given him back his life. Not often we get second chances in this line of work. I’m grateful that you worked so hard on Watson’s behalf.”

“It will be a while before people stop looking at him as if he actually did murder Miss Morstan,” I replied. “Not many people want to visit a doctor who admitted that he injected a patient with a substance which she later died from.”

“True. The Medical Board is taking a look at that. I believe he’ll be fine, though. The law is recent, the regulations a bit unclear, and he seems to have followed them. I don’t believe he’ll lose his medical license.”

“I hope not. You’ll defend him if there’s a hearing?”

“He hasn’t asked. I was wondering if you’ve been talking to him. You seemed chummy with him during the investigation.”

 _Chummy_ rankled a bit, but I kept my tone even. “He’s gone home to Hexham to see his father, who’s quite elderly. I’m sure he’ll take a job up there somewhere, so he can be close by.”

“Hm. I see. He hasn’t written to you?”

I shook my head. “I’m sure he doesn’t like being reminded of what he’s just been through.”

“Well, let me know if you hear from him. He’s a decent chap. I’d hate for the Board to give him trouble.”

I promised to let him know. “Yes, he is decent. More than we can say for some of the players in this little drama. Well, Farrell will pay the piper for his foolish dance. He’s lucky he won’t face the hell Watson had to go through.”

The barrister nodded. “We’re representing him. I think he’ll do all right. He came clean, didn’t he? The judge will take that into consideration.”

“I hope he’s properly grateful,” I said. “If it had been up to me— well, no use talking about it now, is there?”

“None,” said Sir Toby. “None at all.”

As I rejoined the festivities, my brother sidled over to me.

“Mummy’s been asking about you,” he said. “She asks how your _young man_ is doing.”

I sighed. “It’s rather depressing when one’s mother is so desperate to see one paired off that she would accept a _young man_ as willingly as a _young lady.”_

“She wants to see you happy, Sherlock.”

“What about you? Doesn’t she care about your happiness?”

“She does, and has found me a _young lady._ Well, not so young, but tolerant enough to consider a confirmed bachelor like me.”

“You’re— getting married?”

He nodded. “I’m not like you, little brother. Sentiment is not in my nature. A wife serves a purpose, one I acknowledge.”

“Who’s the lucky woman?”

“Lady Ashton-Harte, widow of Jeremy Ashton-Harte. He was the younger brother of—“ He paused, smiling. “Well, I know how you feel about all that peerage nonsense. Suffice it to say, we are well-matched. She is a step above me, socially, and I have obtained a professional rank of note. We both enjoy working— she for charitable causes, and I for the British government.”

“And will you be providing offspring to Mrs Mycroft Holmes?”

He gave me a thin smile. “There are two children, both nearly grown. No further offspring are required— or desired.”

“And you don’t feel any obligation to leave any heirs to the Holmes family? I believe you are Mummy’s last hope.”

He snorted. “This is not a marriage of love, but a functional partnership. She is not as financially secure as she would like to be, and I could benefit socially from having a well-connected spouse. I find her intelligent and sensible. We share a similar outlook.”

“Well, I wish you joy,” I said with as much sincerity as I could manage.

“I am content. It will be a small wedding. You’ll be invited, naturally.” He smiled. “I hope… that I may one day wish you joy as well. If not the kind of joy that is _legal,_ at least the kind that is _lasting.”_

“Thank you, Mycroft. I am not sure that I am a man cut out for joy. I seem to aim at the impossible.”

“Not impossible,” he replied. “Improbable, perhaps. But that should not stop you. Write to him. A friendly letter would not be ill-received.”

“Perhaps.”

I did not write to Watson, or hear from him. He needed time, and I had no choice but to give it to him. I hoped that he had reconciled whatever feelings he had about the experience. I hoped things had gone well with his father. Hamish Watson seemed like a forgiving man, and had said as much to me. I felt sure he would welcome John like the prodigal son. I was not so sure that John could forgive himself.

In January, Andrew Farrell was sentenced to ten years in prison, a fairly harsh sentence because it involved an illegal act on his part, procuring and administering a controlled substance. He did not offer a statement, but took it stoically, in silence. There would be a chance for parole in five years, and it seemed certain that he would be recommended for release when he reached that point.

I kept myself busy. Lestrade called me in on several interesting cases, and the usual stream of clients came to my door. My involvement with the Flapper Murder (as it was called) was well-known, and brought me new clients. Though Mycroft was still willing to contribute to my rent, his support was no longer needed. I did not seek a flatmate.

Bertie Pugh called me at the end of February and asked me to sit for her. She talked as she painted, and I listened. Her disappointment in Farrell was huge, and her reaction to his sentence surprisingly harsh.

“He’s a coward,” she said. “He got off easy.”

“Ironic that he should wind up playing a starring role in one of his own plays,” I said. “To paraphrase Jane Austen: _For what do we live, but to become fodder for mediocre playwrights_? Anyway, it’s human to seek meaning. In fact, that’s the purpose of art, in my view. It’s an attempt to impose meaning on what we see.”

“When you say it that way, I have to agree,” she replied. “It depends on how you understand meaning, though. Most real artists don’t think about what they’re doing, though. It’s instinctual, this kind of creation. I can’t tell you what my paintings mean. I see, and I paint.”

“I understand. I think it’s like that for musicians, too, to some extent. If you think too much about conveying a specific emotion, it becomes mechanical. I play best when I’m actually feeling something, and enjoy it specifically because I’m not thinking. I put feeling into the music, and it inspires feeling in me. It’s a refuge from the tedious necessity to put things into words.”

When she showed me my portrait, I was once more amazed. It was not the kind of painting that someone would pay to have done, but it was an honest rendering. I looked sad, as before, but there was something new in my expression. Something had changed since November.

“What do you see?” I asked.

She smiled. “I see a great mind… and a great heart.”

Mary Morstan’s final book was published in April. I had recommended a ghost writer to Mr McFee, a person with some talent and a great passion for the series: Molly Hooper. She was able to alter the villain enough that he could in no way be identified with Moriarty, and she wrote an ending.

 _The Shameful Affair of the Shady Sheikh_ climbed the charts and in a few days was the number one best-selling fiction title in England. Overseas fans were clamouring for copies and French and German translations were promised.

Mr McFee had sent copies a couple weeks earlier for Mrs Hudson and me, so I didn’t need to stand in line at the bookstore. One evening, I settled down to read it. I had read all of it but the ending, but started over from the beginning to see what changes Molly had made. She was a good writer, deftly mimicking Morstan’s style. Her ending did manage to surprise me. Just a bit. Knowing Molly’s affection for John Watson, I probably should have predicted it.

> _“You’re not hurt, Artie? For God’s sake, say that you’re not hurt!”_
> 
> _“Darling,” he whispered. “My Diana. It’s just a scratch, nothing more.”_
> 
> _She held him close, stroked the hair off his forehead. “Artie, you’re so pale!”_
> 
> _“Pale with love, my dear.” He smiled, then grimaced. She looked down and saw the crimson stain on his shirt growing larger, her hands stained with blood._
> 
> _“Oh, God— you’re bleeding! No, darling— Please! Don’t leave me, my love!”_
> 
> _He closed his eyes. “My dearest, don’t weep for me. I’m not afraid.”_
> 
> _She could hear the sirens approaching. “Artie, no! I… I love you. Yes, it’s true. I know I never told you, but I do! You’re the only one I’ve ever loved. I love you with all my heart— and now, you must do this one thing— just this one thing more— for me.”_
> 
> _His eyes opened, his lovely, sea-dark eyes, and looked at her with affection. “What pleases my mistress?”_
> 
> _She drew in a breath and let it out with a shudder. “I can’t live without you, Artie. Therefore— you must live. You simply must!”_
> 
> _He smiled, even as his voice grew softer, so soft she had to lean in close to hear what he said. “Marry me.”_
> 
> _He had asked her before, more than once, and always she’d laughed and turned him down with an insult. Now, she wondered why she had treated him so cruelly. At this moment, it was all perfectly clear. He had been there, patient, always at her side when she needed him, ready to put himself in danger for her. While she had disparaged his feelings, she had discounted her own. But now her eyes were open and she saw the truth. She was in love with him._
> 
> _“Yes,” she said. “I will marry you. Only you must not die!”_
> 
> _He chuckled soundlessly. “Then I will keep my promise,” he rasped. “And live to make you my wife.” He closed his eyes._
> 
> _“Oh, Artie,” she wept. “Don’t be dead.”_
> 
> _The lovely eyes opened once more. “I’m a doctor, Diana. I told you, it’s just a scratch.”_

_Ah, sentiment_. Not an advantage, but most of us can’t resist it.

I wandered down to Mrs Hudson’s flat, still wearing my dressing gown, my mind filled with visions of Arthur Boyd and Diana Archer dancing on their wedding day. They had stood before a Justice of the Peace, she swearing to love, honour, and _obey_ (of all things), and he calling her Mrs Boyd and promising to love, honour, and _protect_ — if only she would stop running off after criminals, risking her life for the thrill of the chase.

> _You love it, too, Artie, she said, beautiful in her lace gown. You can’t resist giving chase to criminals. He smiled and shook his head, saying, I do. God help me, I do. We’ll have to protect one another, then._

“What do you think?” asked Mrs Hudson, pouring water over the tea bags. “A happy ending for Diana and Arthur.”

I sat down at the table, book in my hand. “Her fans will be happy. It’s a fitting legacy for Mary Morstan, a resolution for a series that will never have another chapter. All the same…”

“It’s hard to imagine them being happy, in the long run,” she supplied. “But I suppose readers can imagine whatever they wish. This one sold out in pre-orders, though, so don’t you think they’ll have Molly write another?”

“I should hope so.”

“That will make her happy. She can quit working for Mr Morstan then, devote herself to writing full time.”

“Why did he love her?” I wasn’t sure whether I was talking about Arthur Boyd or John Watson. “He deserved better.”

“People can’t always choose whom they love.”

I nodded. “You’re right, Mrs H.”

We sat in silence, waiting for the tea to steep. Mrs Hudson put some biscuits on a plate and urged me to take one. “He’ll be back, love. He just needs time to think.”

Winter departed and a very wet spring invaded London. Mrs Hudson went to visit her sister in Swindon for Easter, and I was left to my own devices. I had just wrapped up a case the previous week and was restless. With the wet weather, I couldn’t even walk off my boredom, but I’d promised Mrs Hudson that I wouldn’t shoot at the walls. Instead, I had resorted to updating my long-neglected crime index.

The rain was pouring down, creating small streams that coursed down the storm gutters in the streets. As a rumble of thunder echoed off the buildings, I heard someone pounding on the door downstairs. Our front door does not have an overhang; anyone standing outside would be getting soaked.

 _Lestrade always rings ahead_ , I thought as I hurried down the stairs. It was late for a client. The knocking repeated as I reached the landing.

I pulled the door open and saw a man in an overcoat and bowler hat, water streaming off of him. A small man, caught in the rain without an umbrella.

“Watson.”

“Holmes.” His smile was uncertain. “May I come in?”

Seeing that he was undoubtedly soaked through, I took his arm and pulled him inside. “Of course, of course. Let me take your coat and hat.”

I helped him out of the sodden overcoat and hung it on the peg next to mine. His hat I perched over it.

“I’m sorry.” He set his suitcase down and pulled from his pocket a handkerchief, also wet, to wipe rain off of his face. “The train was late. I went on foot from the station, thinking it would be a short walk, but the rain intensified… Well, here I am. Not as I intended. My apologies.”

“Please,” I said, leading him up the stairs. “Let’s get you some tea and sit you in front of a warm fire. You’re drenched, dear boy! Come, let me make you more comfortable.” I gestured him in through the open door of my flat. “I warn you, I’m going to fuss over you.”

“I’m fine, Holmes.” He hesitated on the threshold. “I’ll just leave my boots outside your door. Coming like this, so late— I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have called, or written. I’m afraid it was a rather spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“No apologies needed.” I put the kettle on and uncovered a plate of sandwiches Mrs Hudson had wrapped in waxed paper, fussing that I might not eat if she didn’t leave me something. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Once tea was in hand, sandwiches eagerly consumed, and trousers starting to dry, we sat in chairs before the blazing fire. It was my fantasy come to life. Though I didn’t know how our conversation would go, I would treasure this moment.

“How is your father, Watson?” I asked.

As he set his cup down, his hand trembled. “He is… he has died, Holmes.” Tears gleamed in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I hope he did not suffer much?”

“No. He passed away in his sleep.” He bit his lip and pulled out his sodden handkerchief once more, dabbing at his eyes.

“My dear man,” I said, completely at a loss. “I’m so sorry. How terrible for you.”

“Forgive me,” he said, recovering himself a bit. “He was old, and had a good life. There is no reason for me to… have regrets.”

“He… you told him…?”

He cleared his throat. “I did,” he said softly.

Grief is a complicated feeling, mixed as it is with regret and the desire for absolution. “And how did he take it?”

He smiled through his tears. “As a father, he forgave everything. He said _loving someone is a gift from God, and cannot be a sin. I do not claim to understand the mind of the Almighty, but if he has put this love in your heart, I will not judge you. We will all stand before Him one day, and I am sure each of us will have things to answer for. I do not condemn you.”_

“I’m glad,” I said. “I know that you… regretted many things.”

“I regret leaving you.” Watson’s dark eyes were focused on me, still damp and a bit red now. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I know it hurt you, but I had to see him. I needed time to think.”

“I understand.” I cast about for some way to change the subject, but there were things to be said, and it was better to simply say them. “I confess that you have never been out of my thoughts. I have hoped for this day, looked forward to finally seeing you again. But those things I said, when you were in gaol… about the flat… you must not feel obligated. It was foolish and self-indulgent for me to say them. You will think it improbable, but I knew the first time I laid eyes on you that I loved you. Selfish man that I am, I had to unburden myself, and in doing so, I have put a burden on you.”

“Sherlock—“

“My dear John, please— you must not think that you owe me anything, or that I pity you. My heart has not changed, but if you do not want… this… be honest with me. I am not fragile; I will not break. And I would never wish you to do anything out of a sense of obligation to me.”

“I did,” he said. “I did feel obligated. You gave me my life. I didn’t know how to repay that debt. I felt— I wanted to reciprocate your feelings then, but I felt broken and useless. I didn’t want to give myself to you like that.”

I shook my head. “John, you feel the debt you owe me cannot be paid. What you don’t realise is that you have already given me something as precious. Because of things that happened a long time ago, I had decided that love is an emotional thing, and that a man like me, who makes a living from reason, could not afford it, lest I bias my judgement. I cut myself off from sentiment and buried myself in my work. 

“Then I met you. I hadn't come to your trial willingly, but was dragged there by my landlady, who believed you were innocent. I hadn't even spoken to you, but I deduced what sort of man you were when I saw you sitting in the dock. And as I watched the proceedings, I began to feel something that made no rational sense: that I had been brought there to save you.”

He smiled. “My hero.”

“I know that sounds arrogant and romantic,” I said, returning his smile. “Well, I am often an arrogant arsehole. And apparently a romantic as well. I loved you for your stoic patience, for your striving to be a better man. No matter what they flung at you, you stood up and told the truth.

“What I am saying is this: you taught me to love again. You also reminded me why I solve these little puzzles-- because there are people like you, in trouble, who need someone like me, who can sort it out for them. I see you in the people who come to me— frightened, confused, and hopeless— seeing me at their last resort.

“You make me a better person, a man who is not merely good at what he does, but a man who has compassion for others. You gave me that, John. You gave me back my heart, so that I could love you.” I paused, seeing his eyes shine. “I believe that makes us even, wouldn’t you say?”

He stood, raising me up as he did. Holding my hands, he looked into my eyes. “I have something else to give you.”

“It’s not necessary—“

“I want to,” he said, his mouth quirking up in a little smile. “You were looking for a flatmate and made the rooms sound quite attractive. Now that I’ve seen them, I agree. Might need to hear the violin a bit, just to make sure you weren’t exaggerating about that.” He laughed softly, raising his eyes to meet my gaze. “If your heart has not changed, I would like to offer my own in return. I cannot think why anyone would want such a heart, but it is yours, if you want it.”

“John.” I went down on one knee before him, taking his hand in mine. “I do want your heart; mine already belongs to you.”

“Oh, you ridiculous man,” he said, both laughing and crying at once. “Come up here, love, and let me kiss you.”

* * *

The phone rang several times. I did not answer it. Instead, I snuggled closer to John, my hand exploring his nether regions. As he stretched and rolled over to face me, I knew that I was, in fact, the happiest man in the world. His smile told me that he felt the same.

“Is the consulting detective on holiday today?” he whispered into my collarbone. “I heard your telephone ringing.”

I pulled him closer. “I’m not sure I will ever get up to answer the blasted thing again— not as long as you’re in my bed.” I tried to kiss him, but he pushed me away, laughing.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to get out of your bed and go find some tea.”

“But it’s not ringing any more!” I protested. “We can stay here.”

As I grabbed for him, he danced away, giggling. It was a wonderful sound, almost as delightful as the sounds he made the previous night. Standing there naked, in the morning light, he was beautiful, all golden skin and sculpted muscles.

“You’ve filled out,” I said. “It looks good on you. What have you been doing?”

“Walking, mostly. I cleaned out the garden at the vicarage and made some repairs to the house. It felt good to be active after being penned in a cell.” His face dimmed for a moment. “I suppose I’ll always remember what it was like, being there. Like the army, always reminding me of what I went through.”

I tossed him my blue dressing gown. “It was such an unnecessary thing for you to go through. It still makes me angry that Farrell let you sit there, thinking you would die.”

“Well, I don’t envy him what he faces now.” He wrapped the sash and tightened it. “If he’s lucky, it might make him a better person. Now, are you going to lie there and let me make you breakfast, or are you going to come and watch? There might be pans banging as I look for things, but I can manage eggs and toast. And tea, of course. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like heaven. I’ll be up in a bit to watch you. I think I could look at you all day and never get bored. This will be my new purpose: watch John make tea; watch John put on his socks; watch John breathe; watch John doing anything naked—”

“Sounds a bit boring, to be honest,” he said. “I might be self-conscious, but I’ll be too busy watching _you_ to notice.” With a wink, he disappeared down the hall.

A few minutes later I heard him banging pans and singing, _Somebody loves me_ … _I wonder who… I wonder who he can be…_

I leaped out of the bed and threw on my mouse-coloured dressing gown, hurrying to see how he would make breakfast. Breakfast with John was sure to be fascinating, whatever he came up with.

We had just sat down to steaming cups of tea, along with scrambled eggs and toast, when someone rang the bell downstairs.

“Lestrade,” I said. “I didn’t answer his calls, so here he is. I wonder what he’s got for me today.”

John smiled a bit shyly. “I hope…”

“I’ll tell him we’re busy,” I said.

“No, I was hoping you’d let me go with you,” he said. “I promise I won’t get in the way. I just want to watch you work.”

I set down my fork. “John. You’re a doctor.”

“Yes,” he replied. “The Board let me keep my license.”

“You’ve seen a lot of trouble— in the war.”

“Far too much.”

“You’re perfect,” I said. “The perfect flatmate, the perfect partner. Of course you can come with me. I’m not sure how I ever made it this far without you.”

He grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I took his hand in mine. “I think I always needed you, even before I met you. I just never realised it.”

The bell rang again, the visitor impatiently leaning on the button. I got up and kissed John, then went to let him in.

“Good morning, Inspector,” I said, ushering him up the stairs. “Will you have some breakfast? Doctor Watson has made enough eggs and toast for a small caravan. I assume you have a case for us. Join us, please.”

Coming through the door, he doffed his hat and nodded at John. “Good morning, Doctor. Mr Holmes, I’m afraid I have some news, and I’m glad Dr Watson will hear this as well. I wanted to tell you myself.”

“What’s happened?” I noted his manner, subdued and somewhat anxious.

He shook his head. “This morning they found Andrew Farrell dead in his cell.”

“Dead? He hanged himself?”

“Overdose, it looks like. Probably morphine. The coroner will call me later to confirm.”

“How did he get hold of that?” John asked. “They regularly check cells, especially if you have a history of injecting drugs. I suppose there are ways to hide it, but surely someone would have noticed… They noted my needle marks when I was processed in, and did unannounced inspections all the time.”

“Apparently, he didn’t give it to himself,” Lestrade said.

“But—“ John looked at me. “Do you mean…”

“No note, no vial, no syringe.” I shook my head.

Lestrade gave me a tight smile. “They’d checked the room the previous day, turned it upside down, made sure there were no drugs.” He fished in his pocket. “There was this.”

The object he handed me was a single, unlit wooden match. “He doesn’t smoke. Was there a box?”

“No box. It was on the table next to the bed, where we found him. I thought it was odd.”

“It’s a message.”

Lestrade gave a short laugh. “A bit late for that.”

“Not for Farrell. It’s a message for me,” I said. “He’s saying that he knows. He’s got his eye on me, and he’s saying _back off, my dear, before I burn you._ ”

“Have they figured out how he got in?” John asked.

The inspector shrugged. “Must have had one of the guards do it. He’s got people everywhere, even in Scotland Yard, I fear.”

We sat silently, sipping our tea. _Murder is just an interesting problem to me_. He said that, and might have added, _as it is to you, Mr Holmes._

John broke the silence. “Is it a taunt? Is he saying, c _ome and get me_? What does it mean?”

Excitement rose in my belly. I smiled at my partner. “It means,” I said, “that the game is afoot, Watson.”

_The “Pursuit” theme begins to play… Our boys look at each other and smile…_

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’m planning a sequel! 
> 
> I have an idea rolling around. It will be plotty, which takes time, so don’t expect it very soon. This one took nine months, from concept to this final chapter. Meanwhile, I have some other things in the works. 
> 
> I love that Sherlock and John are finally together at the end of this after being separated for 15 chapters, but I think they are ready to become the Baker Street Boys. For them, HEA means there’s always another case to solve. I hope you will wait! 
> 
> If you subscribe to this story (or to me), I’ll add a preview chapter when I’m ready to begin posting the sequel so you’ll know.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is heavily inspired by the work of Dorothy Sayers, one of my favourite authors. I have borrowed the scenario from her Strong Poison, and other elements from various Lord Peter Wimsey stories. The plot, however, is my own invention, and some of the characters as well. 
> 
> My knowledge of British law and legal system comes mainly from reading classic English mysteries. If accused of violating UK court procedures, I will plead artistic license.


End file.
